The Statue of Gold
by SomeDrunkSheep
Summary: With his unexpected transfer to the Northern border of Amestris, Miles discovered that things were not always as they appeared to be, especially in the case of the seemingly unmovable commander of the Briggs Fortification, Major General Olivier Mira Armstrong. LivMiles, M rated.
1. 1 - The New Office

A/N: Mornin' here! This is another intrusion of mine in the FmA series, which I consider one of the best there is, this time focusing on the Briggs dynamics. It will have several chapters and it will be part of a series of two stories. This is the first part, about what happened between Miles and Olivier Armstrong before the Promised Day, and how they have prepared along with their allies and subordinates and later participated in it.  
I hope that you will enjoy it and I would really love to hear what you think about it. Please, leave me some feedback and thank you very much for giving this a shot!  
Warnings, because they are needed – this is a work that will contain mature themes. This contains LivMiles (Olivier Mira Armstrong/Miles) and it is rated for all that comes with it.  
Disclaimer, that thing we have to write every time for the obvious reasons – I don't own anything that has to do with Fullmetal Alchemist besides the plot of this fanfiction and the OCs that will appear. In rest, nothing at all.

Full summary, since it has way too many characters to be posted as it is - With his unexpected transfer to the Northern border of Amestris, Miles discovered that things were not always as they appeared to be, especially in the case of the seemingly unmovable commander of the Briggs Fortification, Major General Olivier Mira Armstrong. By the force of hazard, he unveiled the many faces of the woman no one saw as more than a brilliant statue covered in solid gold, shiny and beautiful, yet unapproachable and cold, always standing tall on top of her wall of ice and stone.

And, now that I've made the introductions, let's get on with it...

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Chapter 1 - The New Office

"North City! North City, coming up!" the old conductor announced loudly and left the wagon, wind gushing in as he closed the door to the compartment.

People started getting up on their feet, preparing to descend at the following station. Almost everyone disembarked there - it was one of the last stations in the line, after all.

The weather was rather chilly for that early day of spring, but it has always been colder in the North. Amestris was a large country, summing up all the possible kinds of climates, from the scorching desert to the alpine scenery, but nothing could be compared to the great unmerciful land that went past the fairly cosy North City, the last large settlement before the extreme wilderness began. The few little villages that were located in the said part of the nation were uninhibited during winter, when the low temperatures would freeze the locals, not to mention the unprepared wanderer.

In the station that followed North City, the entire train went down the creaky metal stairs of the wagons and into the dry wind of the afternoon. Only one person remained, a man well bundled in a dark great coat trimmed with white fur. He was sleeping peacefully with his cheek pressed against the cool glass of the window by his side, his feet resting carelessly on top of a leather suitcase.

The man's long white hair has escaped from his high ponytail sometime during the trip and it has slipped over his dark skin, creating a dazzling contrast. His mouth was slightly agape and he snored softly, evidently exhausted from whatever he has been doing the previous days.

The train got to its final stop and the man was still sleeping like nothing has happened. Luckily, the conductor made one final check before he'd have rang the bell to announce they could return to the depot at the other end of the line. The old railways worker smiled at the sleeping young man and gently shook his shoulder.

At once, the dark skinned man's eyes snapped open and his hand darted to his belt, where a white leather scabbard covered a gun. The conductor patted him in an attempt to calm him down. "Sorry to wake you up, son, but it's the last stop."

The passenger blinked, his red eyes so bleary they couldn't focus a single image. His vision soon returned and he let go of the hidden weapon. "I'm so sorry, Sir!" he said apologetically and unconsciously grabbed the worker's hand. He shook it firmly and then jumped to his feet. He hastily retied his loose hair and grabbed his suitcase from the floor. "Thank you so much for waking me up, I'm sorry for my reaction," he made politely and tilted his head to the smaller man. "Have a good day, Sir," he added and hopped off the train, his long overcoat swinging about his feet. He looked at his watch and felt a vein in his temple throb anxiously. "Oh, fuck, I'm so going to be late!" he cursed and measured up the mountain that stood proudly in the distance.

It was so damn far away.

He turned on his heels, his heavy boots surprisingly steady on the snow that was covering the station's refuge, and looked up at the old conductor. "Excuse me, Sir, but is that the way to the military road?"

"You want to get to Briggs, ey?" the railways worker assumed. "Yes, son, that's the road, right where you see the barbed wire up there. But you should be careful and follow the path, it will be night before you know it and these mountains are dangerous."

"Thank you a lot, Sir," the younger man said and smiled, his crimson eyes crinkling as he struggled to see in the whiteness that surrounded them. He saluted formally and started making his way through the powdery snow.

The old conductor shook his head at the departing figure. "Poor fellow, he doesn't know where he's landed," he grunted and returned to the safety of the train wagon.

Captain Miles, the train passenger, advanced surely toward the sign that clearly wrote 'FORT BRIGGS' in red letters. That was where he was headed to, his new post for who knew how long. He snuggled better inside his warm coat and started pacing forward, passing into the military controlled land.

No longer than a week before, he had been announced by his commanding officer, one of the most incompetent men he had ever had the displeasure to encounter, that he was being promoted to the rank of Captain. That had beeb brilliant news to Miles, who not only had graduated at the top of his class in the Academy, but had earned ranks in his young age so effortlessly because of his aptitudes. He hadn't done what he would have wanted at first, having to take part in brutal missions that hadn't made him proud of himself, but soon after, he had found himself a good spot that brought him certain satisfaction with his work.

Just when he had been certain that the army finally appreciated a keen mind and great skills, he had stumbled into the most idiotic officer he could have found in the entire Eastern Command, a narrow-sighted dilettante with a warm place in the military, comfortably secured by his father, some General from Central. And that had been when his surprising advancement through the ranks halted like it had been hit by the train.

He had apparently bothered the pocket officer with his remarks and helpful advice in missions. Miles had saved many soldier lives with his points and directions, but his superior officer started to feel threatened by his intelligence. With a few well-aimed tips, the incompetent had managed to get rid of his bright subordinate, whom others liked quite a lot.

That was why, along with his much deserved promotion that should have come a long time before, Miles had received a letter which announced him he had been reassigned to fort Briggs, all the way up North. Lieutenant General Grumman had protested against his relocation, wanting to transfer him to his base in the East City, but Central Command hadn't even listened to his proposition. It appeared that the quarter Ishbalan had stepped on some serious nerves.

As much as he felt flattered that another high ranked officer tried to take him for his utility, Miles wasn't all that happy with his new position. He had been promoted, alright, but what would be the real price of his big mouth? He had heard so many stories about Briggs, one more terrifying than the other, but what scared him the most was something that didn't have anything to do with the climate or the potential frostbites.

What made the stories about Briggs so horrifying weren't by any means the weather or the nasty conditions - it was the commander. First of all, it was a woman, something unheard of throughout the Amestrian military. That didn't bother Miles in the slightest, he had always known how to act with all kinds of persons from both genders, but she didn't sound like anyone he had ever encountered.

Major General Armstrong was very young for her position and he had heard that she was quite lovely to the eye, but whatever rumours had reached him hadn't continued as nicely. She was ruthless and cold, almost inhumanely so. In not even two years after she had been assigned to Briggs – where he guessed she had gotten to because she had angered someone, just like him – she had not only advanced ranks because those above her died in stupid accidents or had to be discharged, she had become the commander of one of the most dangerous posts in the country. She had literally sent the former commanders from her time in caskets with the simple annotation that they hadn't been prepared to face the North.

No one had dared to imply that she'd had a hand in the suspicious circulation of commanders because it was a well-known fact that some don't survive serving in the extreme North. Moreover, ever since she had received the post, Briggs had turned into a properly oiled machine, well-tuned and very efficient. Those who bothered their superiors were still being sent there from time to time, but the quality of training and the security of the land increased exponentially, just like it had been before it had lost some of its shine. If not better.

The fort had passed through a bit of a difficult period not too long before she had arrived there due to improper restructuration, but in less than a year of command, Armstrong had successfully transformed Briggs back into the greatest fortification there was in the entire country. After that, the fort's reputation had only escalated. Miles admired her just for that, but he wasn't sure how well he would adapt to her. She didn't sound like one to pat your back and tell you all will be fine – which, for some reason, he thought he might want to hear in that hell-hole.

He walked forward, careful not to lose the path. It was true, night was slowly creeping up and it was getting harder to see, but he didn't lose his drive. The previous week had been infernal for him, because he had had to leave his work in order, though his slumber in the train had worked wonders on his state of mind. He was confident that he would survive even the harsh female commander if he stayed positive.

His confidence started to drop when night finally fell and wind picked up alarmingly fast. Before he faced anyone, he had to get to the fort. He was surprised that no one waited for him at the base of the mountain, but he guessed that was all part of some elaborate assertion of character. He took out his flashlight and advanced, using his knowledge about desert sand on the snowy road. It was amazing how similar they both were. He had spent his childhood in Ishbal and he had walked its extensive dunes from top to bottom - he had enough experience with powdered grounds and the likes.

After what felt like an eternity, Miles made out the huge wall that formed the fortification. It was impressive, indeed, standing tall and proud at the Northern border of the country.

He soon reached the front entrance, guarded by a brick barrack. The door opened and a huge man ducked under the frame. "Shit, mate, what you're doing out so late?" he asked, but he didn't sound awfully surprised, like he was expecting to see him. He pulled Miles inside. "Are you daft or something?"

Miles shook his head and raised his arms. "Hold it there, officer! I was told to arrive here today, so I arrived here today."

"You're Captain Miles, right?" the huge soldier assumed. Suddenly, his face twisted into a huge grin and he patted him on the shoulder, more like trying to dislocate it than anything else. "Good to meet you, Sir, I'm Lieutenant Buccaneer! The Major General requested for me to wait for you."

"Here?"

"Evidently, Sir," Buccaneer retorted. "I've only followed the queen's orders. She said she wanted to see if you can find your way here. Seems to me that you could, huh," he said with a shrug.

Miles watched the larger officer with incredulity. That was quite the welcome, having to make his way blindly to the middle of nowhere. He wondered if that was the customary way up there or if it was just his case. He hoped the former, because if it wasn't so, he had something else coming.

"I'll take you to the commander, Sir, just follow me," the Lieutenant made and motioned for him. He waved at the other soldiers in the barrack and went inside the fort.

Miles followed him, shivering as he was slowly adapting to the change of temperature. Outside, it was cringingly cold, yet inside, it was bearable. Once his body got used to it, he dared notice that it was pleasantly warm.

He fell into step with the large Lieutenant, whose long braid swung with each step. The loose end was tied with a small pinkish bow which wasn't very well done, but it definitely stood out. The man didn't wear any gloves – he held them in his breast pocket. He noticed that one of his hands was made from automail, but he didn't think it would be kind to ask how he had gotten it. Miles settled with trying to learn more about the fort's ways. "You've called the Major General a 'queen'. Is that her nickname?"

Buccaneer chuckled. "Aye, you'll soon find that out for yourself, Captain, we're almost there."

They weren't by any means 'almost there'. The fort was humongous and it had so many corridors and doors looking identical, it was impossible not to get lost. Miles carefully made a map of all he was seeing inside his head. He had good memory and it seemed he would have to make use of it really soon if he wanted to find anything in there.

After a long journey through the bowels of the fort and up its many stairs, they reached a double door that read 'Office' and nothing more. Buccaneer knocked and a voice replied monotonously, "Enter."

Inside, behind a cramped up desk, a blonde woman was writing fervently in a thick register. She didn't look up from her papers, but she acknowledged their presence with the tilt of her head.

"I've brought Captain Miles, Sir," the Lieutenant said casually and pointed to the other man.

The woman stopped her scribbling and looked up, her only visible eye so blue it could have matched the clearest of skies. "Ah, Captain, so good of you to join us," she made unimpressed and turned her gaze to the Lieutenant. "That would be all, Buccaneer, go check on the idiots with the icicles," she said evenly.

"Yes, Sir," the huge man retorted and left the room after saluting with the back of his hand.

The Major General was so different from what Miles had imagined. She didn't look like the manly figure he had envisioned. On the contrary, she was quite a short woman with long, overflowing hair, curled at the tips but otherwise pretty straight. Her skin was very pale and her lips were enticingly full, yet he highly doubted she was the kind to enjoy compliments on her appearance. She was nice to look at, that much was obvious, but she had a deadly glint in her cerulean eyes.

They didn't sparkle right to him.

She put her elbows on the tabletop and lowered her head on the back of her gloved hands, watching him critically. She appeared to be examining him, and she did it rather clinically.

It was starting to get uncomfortable when she leaned back on her chair. "So, you're the Captain who'd upset the Command," she said, her voice low. "I see, then. Well, I must admit I'm impressed you've showed up this evening, I thought you'd stay in the city until morning."

"I followed my orders," Miles replied and, after some thought, he added, "Sir."

"Ah, you're perceptive. That's good. So, tell me, Captain," Armstrong started, "do you know why you're here?"

Miles straightened and clasped his hands behind his back. He looked straight into the woman's eyes, a daring gesture, but necessary if he wanted to make a good impression. She seemed to appreciate that, because she let out a little chuckle. "So you know, then! Well, Captain, it seems you have bothered some higher-ups, and that is exactly what I am looking for."

"Excuse me?" he asked, a little confused.

"I have been looking for someone capable for a long while, and when I've heard about your case, I knew you'd be the best man for the job. Your determination to get here in this weather won you some valuable points and I think you will fit well, indeed," Armstrong continued. "Tell me, Captain Miles," she said his name almost mockingly, "how would you like to be my assistant?"

His red eyes flinched. The woman was clearly mad, she didn't know a thing about him, but she wanted him to be her assistant. He doubted that was the way things worked. "Sir, I'd be honoured by the proposition, but-"

"I don't take 'but's, Captain. I have no time to waste on them. I want to know if you think yourself capable of being my helpful hand. You might know that you are the highest ranked in here besides me, but I have no problem with trimming the lines. What I want is a decision. A fast decision. So, are you up for the job, or not?"

She talked very certain of herself, making Miles believe she knew more than she let. For some reason, he sensed her steely gaze could read into his mind and he suddenly felt interested. His new place would be challenging, to say the least, but he was sure he was more than ready for it. He had no idea what it would mean or what he would have to do, but he could learn how to play that game on the go.

"So, your answer?" she demanded coolly, fixating him with her electric gaze.

"Yes, Sir, I accept the position."

It wasn't hard to understand why Buccaneer called her a 'queen', when her presence oozed all that power concentrated in one small frame. Miles didn't know what he had gotten himself into, but he felt that his intelligence would be at last appreciated at its true value.

At last.

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A/N: Ta-da! This is the first chapter and I hope that you've enjoyed it. Please let me know what you thought of it, I really appreciate feedback.  
If you are interested, I have written other stories with this pair. You can check them on my profile. Other than this, thank you very much for reading!  
Until the next time, bye-bye!


	2. 2 - To Open a Window

A/N: Mornin'! This is the second chapter of this story, I hope you will enjoy it. There aren't exactly any warnings for this chapter, they will show up a bit later, but the disclaimer still stands on. Thank you very much for reading and I'd love to hear what you think of this!

That being said, on with the supper...

* * *

Chapter 2 – To Open a Window

Miles woke up with a start, his cheek smacked on the cold floor of his room. He cringed at the unpleasantness of the meeting with the board and got up on his knees. He tried to rise to his feet, but he nearly fell again, as the sheets were entangled with his legs. Awkwardly, he climbed back on the mattress which he had fallen from when he had turned in his sleep and he stretched his groaning bones.

He rubbed his eyes groggily and yawned from the bottom of his heart. He felt tired and he ached everywhere, but he supposed it was because the thick covers he had been provided with had bundled around his ankles rather than around his body. He hadn't even realised he had fallen asleep uncovered, with his book over his chest, in a tremendously cold room. Unfortunately, the pages of his novel hadn't worked well as blanket and he woke up a bit warmer than a corpse.

He looked at one of the walls, where a curtain was flipping wildly. "But of course," he made ruefully and padded to the window. He closed it, shivering when the icy wind brushed over his already chilled skin. He rubbed his sides and went to the foot of the bed to collect his fallen sheets.

"So, no airing the room before going to sleep," he mumbled to himself. "Fuck, it's cold!" he sputtered and checked the heater. Which wasn't turned on, evidently.

"Damn it, Farid, you are so bloody stupid," Miles scolded himself as he rotated the red metallic tap, the pipes starting to fill with hot water and emanating heat. "No falling asleep before turning the heat on, either," he added to his mental list of things not to do if he didn't want to catch his death or, at the very least, pneumonia or some other kind of nasty cold.

The clock on his nightstand was pointing to the unmerciful hour of half past four, quite a long time before he was supposed to be awake and too little from when he's lost track of his surroundings. He paced around, feeling the cold floor even through his thick socks. He wasn't sure whether he would be able to fall back asleep or not.

There is an unwritten law about going back to sleep feeling moderately fresh and then waking up as tired as a dog, so Miles plopped back on the mattress and leaned on the rolled up pillow behind him. He snuggled under the thick blanket he has recuperated from the floor and set himself to examining his room, that time much warmer than the last time he looked at it.

It was a simple chamber, quite big for something military-issued, with the walls a bit on the yellowish-grey hue of white. It wasn't bad, all in all, because the ceiling illumination was working splendidly and it lit up every corner. He had a small lamp next to the head of the bed, so at least there was a lot of light despite the early hour.

But that was about it. Otherwise, the room was really bare, with a desk by the wall and a chair in front of it. And a blissfully intimate bathroom with a working shower in the back. That was the highlight of the assembly, and that was all.

Miles was granted 'private quarters' because of his new position - whatever that was - and he had been assured by his commander that it was just like any other room, only he did not have to share it with anyone. Which was an impeccable improvement to the room's case.

He clicked his tongue over his teeth, thinking how he could transform it. Make it livelier, more colourful, more like a place where someone actually spent time in and relaxed after a long day. It needed some good redecoration – or more like decoration, because there was absolutely nothing to change. There wasn't anything in there.

Looking more carefully, he could see a good spot by the bed for a knitted carpet, or maybe two if he found something that he liked, along with a nice smooth surface for some flowery painting that would make any sensible person cringe. There was definitely a perfect corner for a grandfather armchair which would take up more place than it should... the room had potential, he realised with surprise.

The potential of turning into the perfect kitsch, if he started adding in it all the things that he had in mind, but at least it would have some personality.

That wasn't going to be an austere bedroom, he decided, even if it didn't fit any military standards. He landed there because he didn't meet the kiss-up-the-arse criteria of his superiors, so he would not just let that go. He was proud of his misplacing in the lines and he could very well make use of it.

XXXXX

Olivier looked at the fairly tall ceiling of her room. The powerful light coming from its centre was nearly blinding her, but she couldn't not notice that the damned ceiling was such a dull grey. She was not seeing any of that, but she knew it. She turned her attention to the nearest wall, which was also stained with grey, though not from decolouration or because the army loved painting everything in it. It was covered in dirty fingertips, soiled with graphite and coloured powders. The marks were masked by her many drawings, all scotched or nailed on the otherwise plain walls of her room.

She turned on her stomach on the bed and her elbow hit the hilt of the gun that she was holding under her pillow. She pushed it back under its hiding spot, but it disturbed the handle of her heirloom sword. "Hey, girl," she muttered as she grabbed the leather scabbard. She unsheathed the long blade, its silver sparkling when it caught the light. "What are you doing here?" she asked it and sheathed it back.

She did not usually sleep with swords next to her – only with a hunting knife and a loaded gun, which could pass as nothing, if one squinted – but even she would admit that it could have been dangerous if she turned around and, let's say, accidentally opened the scabbard. "Hm? Back to your place," she told the sword and put it on the nightstand.

Olivier let out a sigh.

It was high time she got up from bed if she started talking to a sword. She needed to brush her minds well and clean and staying cooed up in her stuffy room would not help.

She slowly left the warmth of the sheets and started changing into her uniform. She had been awake for quite a while and she had done nothing, absolutely nothing besides looking at the ceiling and contemplating time. It was five o'clock in the morning and she had done nothing, when she was supposed to sleep.

She padded to the burnt pot on her messy desk, filled with papers, books and some forgotten nail polish she used when she went on delegations. The small colourful bottles shone prettily and she pushed them away with the back of her hand, sending them over the other piles. She rummaged through a drawer and found a pink mug, slightly chipped from overuse and not very well painted, but it had been a present from her little brother, when he had been a bit over seven or eight years old. Alex had worked an entire summer as a newspaper boy to buy his sisters something for each of their birthdays and he had painted that mug himself, drawing big black flowers covered in golden glitter for her.

She could still see them in her mind, her family cheering that its only boy did his best to make his sisters happy with his own means, not helped by their parents. She remembered how little Catherine, who had been still growing her first teeth back then, had chewed the little squeaky doll from her big brother.

In her mind, the Major General could see a small Cathy giggling as Amue was spinning her around. Strongine was clapping her hands and singing to her with her tender voice. Their mother was knitting a new bonnet for her youngest and their father was taking pictures of them, smiling impossibly wide at his girls.

Olivier's eyes darted to the small framed photograph, nailed to the wall that was covered in maps and various drawings of people and buildings that had caught her eye over the time. She looked at her family, all smiling together, even her, holding Catherine's small and delicate hand in hers as the youngest of the family stood up proudly on Alex's shoulders. She read their names aloud, written under each of the six members of the Armstrong family beside herself – Philip Gargantos, Olympe, Amue, Strongine, Alex Louis and Catherine Elle. It felt good to read those names, the names of the family she hadn't seen in years, but that was all smiling back at her in that little framed picture.

She lowered her gaze, unable to look at the happy figures any longer. She grabbed the handle of the pot and poured its content in the pink mug. The previous day's coffee was cold and it didn't taste too appetising, but without it, she wasn't sure she would be able to make it awake to the office in order to brew another equally unsavoury beverage, yet hot and fresh.

The truth was that Olivier would have loved to go to sleep in the morning and wake up at noon. That would have been a good life for her, almost like a dream. Instead, she fell asleep in the morning and had to wake up at the same time, running on very little rest that was of poor quality when it occurred.

Maybe that night would be the night when she slept well, she hoped. Maybe it would be the night when she forgot of everything that weighted her down and her eyes finally closed when she put her head on the pillow.

But how well could she sleep when the barrel of her gun was poking at her neck?

She shook that line out of her mind and left her room, locking it before she headed to the rooftops to get a good whiff of the fresh mountain air. That would wake her up faster than any muddy coffee ever would.

She stuffed her hands in her pockets as she climbed up the long, lonely stairs that led to the roof. The moment she opened the door that separated her from the outer world, cold air hit her and she felt her blood flow properly again. She took a deep breath and let it out, being alive and ready for another day of work in her fortress.

Two soldiers were already marching down towards her to give the report of the night's duty, so it appeared that the day started for her before the sun made its full appearance.

XXXXX

Miles hummed to himself as he stirred the powdered coffee in the large kettle over the office's burner. He had no idea how he had managed to find his way there from his room, but with a bit of luck and some good, old-fashioned blind navigation, he had made it.

He set himself to preparing everything for the beginning of the day. He started the coffee, he arranged the files on his desk – which has been appointed by his new commander the other day - and fidgeted with finding out what he was supposed to do. He was not sure if he was too early or too late, he did not know the full extent of his work attributions, besides that of assisting in the fort's running and perhaps in the inadvertent paperwork it ensued. Otherwise, he was only operating on guesses.

The Major General hadn't told him much, except that he would be provided with a desk and a chair of his choice and that he would share the office with her. He stirred the coffee again and turned off the burner before it overflowed. That woman was such a strange one, he pondered. She seemed really certain of herself, yet she had such a way of taking out one's confidence and crushing it with her boots.

He could be called paranoid, but he had a hunch that she was testing him, not giving him too many instructions and all that. He could play that game, if she was setting up the challenge, but he would have liked to know a little more about the rules.

The door opened abruptly, leading Miles to forget about any scenarios that he had been imaging. Behind the frame, a blonde head emerged and stopped, almost surprised by his presence. The look was gone in an instant, but he had seen it, clear as day.

He felt a bit smug with himself, catching her off guard. "Good morning... - Sir," he greeted a bit awkwardly, unused to calling a woman as if she were a man.

Armstrong wetted her lips and sketched no other gesture of acknowledgement. She had forgotten about the new subordinate whom she had appointed as her assistant on a whim, and that was not the moment to show that she did not know what she was doing. Though, by the power of the paradoxes, even if she didn't know, she did.

She had accidentally heard of him when she had been at an interminable dinner party at the conclusion of her latest summon to East City and her interest had sparkled when she had learnt about his many merits. He was about the same age as her - well, a few months younger, in fact, after reading his file - and he possessed a surprising record of awards and merits. She had sniffed injustice the moment she had seen that he had been put under transfer to some distant camp in the deep wilderness of South Amestris, so she had detoured him under her wing. She needed someone with some good spunk in them to help her run things in her fort and she reckoned that someone of his calibre would fit right in.

Other than that, she didn't know who she was working with. Olivier had an eerily good feeling about him, one that happened upon her so rarely, but she was not going to be showing much. If he proved to be unsuited for the task, there were enough wildlings at the base of the mountain to get rid of him for her.

But it smelled of coffee in the office, so he was on the right track. "I've brewed the coffee, Sir, if you would like some," he said mildly and extended his arm to take her coat. Ignoring him, she defiantly hanged it next to his own in the hamper, watching for his reaction. So damn smoothly, he subtly retracted his hands and clasped them behind his back, like he was waiting for her instructions.

If that's how he had behaved around his previous superior, no wonder he had stepped on some nerves. He had finesse, she noticed impressed, and there were too few in the military that possessed that treasured attribute. She went to the table which the kettle was still bubbling on and took one of the upturned mugs. She poured herself some of it, leaving a good amount if Miles wanted to have some. She dropped an impressive quantity of sugar in it and took a sip without waiting for the coffee to cool.

From the side-lines, Miles noted of her behaviour. She turned her gaze to him and he kept up his serious face, though he was struggling not to squirm under her intense scrutiny. She looked like she wanted to say something, but someone knocked at the door before entering. "'Mornin', General, brought the other night's reports, fresh from the oven," Buccaneer boomed from the frame and handed Olivier some papers, which she passed on to Miles without looking at them. The large Lieutenant grinned at him and waved his hand. "Hello, Captain," he said cheerily and left the office.

Miles looked down at the heavy papers and sighed internally. Reports and paperwork, he knew how to work with them, but he wasn't overly fond of them. But when he looked at his superior, taking another sip of coffee as she sat in front of her desk and took out a fountain pen to start her own share of administrative work, he could swear he saw her smirking into the mug.

XXXXX

At the hour of lunch, which none would have noticed if Buccaneer hadn't popped up in the office with some other papers from Central Command, Miles made his way alongside the tall Lieutenant to the mess hall. The man's steps were heavy and he wore a little smile, his hands pushed deeply into his pockets. Miles watched him carefully, his own arms behind his back and fingers fidgeting nervously around each other.

"Hey, Captain, no need to be so tense," Buccaneer said and looked down at him. "It's only lunch, all you need to do is eat the food fast, before the food eats you," he joked and laughed.

Miles had to chuckle at that. "That's reassuring," he said without much conviction. He dreaded what he would find there, but at least he had been warned in advance. "How come the General didn't come with us? She's been drinking coffee all morning and that's all."

"You didn't show up at breakfast either," the other noted.

"Yes, but I have no idea where the mess hall is, so spare me of the side comments," Miles made indignantly.

"I'm surprised you've found the office in the morning."

"I know, me too!" Miles gestured wildly, feeling suddenly at ease with Buccaneer. He quite liked the other officer, he seemed like one who loved chatting, so unlike their superior. "Does she eat? The General, I mean."

"Eating is for the weaklings," the Lieutenant said. "So is sleeping and acting like a normal human being," he added with a shrug. "She's running herself into an early grave, if you ask me, but the only time I'd had the bad idea of telling her it wasn't healthy to live solely on coffee and smokes, she'd nearly threw me off the rooftops." Buccaneer chuckled and shook his head. "Perhaps I should have told her that when we were inside, but you get my point."

"Mhm," Miles hummed. The Major General sounded like a difficult character, but he suspected that there might be more to her than what met the eye. "Is the General always so... not verbal? I don't know how to call it," the quarter Ishbalan asked as they turned around a corner. His mental map was beeping wildly in his head, struggling to capture the spaces they were traversing and to memorise them.

"Not verbal? What do you mean?"

"What I mean is, she hasn't exactly told me what I'm supposed to do. I know, paperwork and make sure nothing blows up, but I guessed that I had to do that. I found out from some papers about my assignments for today."

"Really? No, she's pretty vocal about what she wants to be done, it makes us feel alive when she starts yelling," Buccaneer explained. "Maybe she's trying you? She's cruel like that, you know."

Miles made a face. He wished he knew more about what was going on.

It seemed that they have reached the cafeteria. The double doors had round windows that certainly had seen better days, but on the wood of its entrance were pompously carved the words 'DINING ROOM' in cursive script. The Briggs soldiers had a bit of humour, Miles appreciated.

He followed Buccaneer through the many rows of benches and loud soldiers. Some paid him no mind, others smiled at him, regarded him guardedly or simply uninterested. He realised that he hadn't exactly been introduced and he had just landed in the middle of things.

Almost like a lost child, he mimicked the Lieutenant in picking up a tray and food, then sat down next to him. Buccaneer was grinning parentally at him and Miles frowned. "Shit, I knew why I came to pick you up," the huge man leaned towards him to whisper, but he didn't say anything else to him. Instead, he addressed the other people at the table he had chosen, who were all either dressed in striped shirts or wore working clothes.

"Guys, this is Captain Miles, fresh from the Eastern Command and here to stay with us," Buccaneer presented him and patted him on the shoulder in that crushing-bones manner of his. "He's the second in command, so see how you're treating the lad!" he boomed and chortled.

The table was all watching him mischievously. "Seems our Captain swallowed his tongue," a soldier wearing a black bandana blurted between two mouthfuls of food. He seemed hungry and he was chewing viciously on whatever he was shoving in his mouth with a spoon that resembled a shovel.

"Your Captain is merely showing a bit of manners," Miles implied mildly and smiled his kindest, sharpest smile.

The one in front of him, a woman who wore round glasses, elbowed the munching man. "Ta, idiot," she scolded sternly. "Nice meeting you, Captain," she said and extended her hand to him. Miles shook it with a nod. "I'm the fort's doctor, and it's good to finally see someone who knows how to use a fork," she pointed to how the Ishbalan was holding the cutlery. "Most men here use a spoon for cutting meat, like this stupid swine," she elbowed the eating bandana-man again.

"Would you fuckin' stop that!" the man made annoyed. She threw him a dangerous look and he turned his gaze away from her. "Yeah, sorry, I'm Neil, and I'm famished," he introduced himself and waved the fork he was holding in his other hand, on top of which a thick chunk of meat was dripping sauce viciously. "I'm the Head Engineer around here and, since we're at it, I'm the one who made that baby," he said and pointed to Buccaneer's automail. "State of the art in cold weather, if you ask me."

"Yes, I must admit it is impressive. You must have used rather elastic materials to make it resist at this temperature, I would say... maybe light aluminium, definitely carbon fibres for strength, hm? Perhaps some nickel alloy, judging by the colour," Miles detailed sagely and took a bite of bread. It smelt good and it would probably dull the other tastes.

The Engineer nodded, his eyes wide with disbelief. "How did you know? Do you have automail, too? I've landed myself a new client?"

"Ah, that, I don't," Miles said and took a sip from his tea. "My father is an Engineer and, to put it mildly, a metallic structures freak. The grander, the better, if you know the type. I've learnt how to use a wrench before I knew how to write, even though the first thing I did with it was to knock out one of my cousin's teeth."

At the doctor's other side, a curly haired officer snorted, nearly inhaling the coffee he was drinking. His uniform coat was neatly folded next to him. "That sounds like a fighter!" he made throatily, laughing like he was being strangled. He coughed, regaining some of his voice after choking with the coffee. "I'm Karley, by the way. I see it's the trend to say what we're doing here, so - I'm the guy in charge of the communications," he introduced himself with a tilt of his head and coughed again, still bothered by the liquid that went in the wrong direction.

"And incapable to drink without chocking," the doctor said amused and gave him a hard slap on the back to help him. Startled by the sudden impact, Karley stopped spitting his lungs because of his carelessness and grinned sheepishly. "Sorry about that," he muttered embarrassedly.

Miles nodded at them with a little smile, already feeling warm that the ones in charge of different departments seemed accepting, at least up front. It was true that they were just a handful of people, but it was a promising start. They looked like normal people, without much pretence. "It would have sounded braver if my cousin wasn't younger than me and barely starting to change teeth," he continued testily.

"That's too bad," a big blond man said regrettably. "I knocked out my sister's boyfriend's teeth when I was a kid because he was talking ugly things about Giselle and our mother with mom's then-husband. Giselle, that's my sister," he added for Miles. "I'd gotten a beating from my step father that nearly killed me for that."

"Damn, man, sorry to hear that," Karley said with a frown on his face. The rest of the table nodded fervently.

"Pf, it's fine," the blond replied with a large grin. "The boyfriend was a half-witted git and my sister dumped him, and my mother kicked out her then-husband. He was a git as well, but again, it seems like all men who associate themselves with the women in my family are gits, one way or another. I'm Henschel, by the way, Second Lieutenant in charge of the weapon's vault. So, what happened to you after you hit your cousin?"

"Nothing much, my cousin had grabbed the wrench from my hand and started smacking me with it. She'd swung that thing like a racket, actually, and she'd begun taking tennis lessons after that, because she'd appeared to be a natural."

"Quite a way to find out!"

"Yes, quite. When my father had found us, he'd started laughing and said that I should watch my back, if girls started beating me up from that age. My mother had been hysterical when she'd saw me and Rahel, my cousin, bleeding on each other, but no one really listens to someone who's a bit taller than a ten years old child. Though I kept dad's advice in mind."

"Damn straight," the doctor agreed. "No proper man ought to be beaten by a woman," she said and punched Neil, who hissed between his clenched teeth. "Stop that already!" he barked back and slapped her thigh hard. She jumped up the bench and punched him again.

"I tied her to a tree and left her there for almost an entire day in retaliation," Miles admitted abashedly. "I'm not one who cares much for violence, you know, but I have a thousand of girl-cousins and it seemed the logical thing to do. Somehow."

"And you've tied her to a tree because of that," Buccaneer said. "My sister would have hanged me by the bollocks if I'd have done that."

"Come on, Buc, I'm sure it wasn't that bad," Neil said slyly. "You were a kid, weren't you, Sir, how much harm could you have possibly done?"

"Why, it was late autumn and it was raining like the world was going to end," Miles interjected in a small voice. He wasn't particularly proud of what he had done to his favourite cousin, one of the many cousins he had but one of the few that he would readily admit he was related to. "Other than that, it had been a pleasant day."

"Fuck, that's cruel!" Karley made indignantly.

"She'd made me regret it, alright," Miles added with a breathy chuckle. "Anyway, it's a pleasure to meet you all," he said to them.

"Likewise, Captain," the doctor spoke for the entire table. The rest nodded in agreement. "I think the queen approves of you, doesn't she?"

"Speaking of our General, I was instructed to check on the inventories," Miles noted.

Henschel motioned with his head to the side. A red haired man with a map of freckles on his nose and cheeks was approaching their table. "Redmyre is your man for that," he said. The ginger head cursed under his breath, the smell of stale cigarettes and dust clinging to him like a ghost. He looked like he was about to drop from his feet if he didn't take a sit.

"Sod off, Henschel, give me a break, will ye?" he said thickly and sat next to Miles on the bench that he shared with Buccaneer, who was silently finishing his lunch. "Whatever you need me for, it can wait," he mumbled and started digging into his food. "I'm starved!"

"Stupid, that's a Captain you're talking to," Neil said, finally done with his mountain of a meal and sitting the fork and spoon on his empty plate.

"Ey, is that so?" Redmyre looked at his shoulders, to his stripes. "May I have the honour to eat me bleeding lunch, Captain," he sneered boorishly and dug back into his business. "I've been workin' and workin' non-stop since yesterday, sorry for the lack of manners, but they've went to sleep this mornin'."

"You've never had any, Red," the doctor muttered and the ginger head suddenly straightened defensively, like he was preparing for a brawl.

"But of course, Sergeant," Miles spoke clearly, overstepping in the possible conflict that could have arisen between the snappy doctor and the tired soldier. He looked again at the stripes on his shirt's shoulder, since he wasn't wearing his coat, to make sure he got his rank right. "You can finish eating in your own time, as long as I have the entire inventory done before supper. Today's supper," he added with a little smile that was conveniently kind, yet it evidently signified that he didn't want to hear any complaints.

The green eyes of the red haired man snapped up in dismay. He nodded and ate his lunch without any other interventions. The rest of the table regarded Miles with awe that would later develop into respect if things went well, he suspected. He had managed to shut up the one person who wouldn't stop talking rubbish with just a few chosen remarks and the proper tone.

He had a good future ahead of him, if he knew how to play his cards with them.

XXXXX

The rest of the day was silent, work following its normal course in the fort. Miles checked on the inventories like he had been asked to, apparently in only half a day when it usually took at least three. He was surprised to hear about that when Redmyre had told him a bit about how things were spinning in there. He hadn't seemed to be holding any grudges for the little conversation they had had at lunch once he'd had some coffee.

He returned to the office with some food he'd smuggled from the kitchens for the General. He had no idea what she'd done the entire day. She seemed to have signed quite a lot of papers, because the little table next to her desk was full of done paperwork. "Have you finished with the inventories, Captain?" she asked him without looking up, like she knew he was going to give her a negative answer. No one could have finished them up that fast, especially a newcomer.

"Yes, Sir," Miles replied and put his reports and lists on a tray. The blonde stopped for a second, then resumed her reading frenzy. After a while, she gazed up at him.

"I have brought you something to eat, Sir," he told her. "The ones from the kitchen said that you haven't requested for anything today."

"I don't want to eat right now," she snapped and waved dismissively. She had been munching pretzels the entire day, it seemed, because she had at least three opened bags of them at her side and they all looked half-empty.

"Nonetheless, you should," he replied bravely, then regretted it when he heard himself speak. It was his first full-day there and he was already trespassing boundaries that he didn't know where they laid.

Despite herself, Armstrong swallowed drily and accepted the tray from his hands. She took a bite from the steaming stew and resumed her work.

Miles walked to his desk and returned to what he had left from the morning. He saw with the corner of his eyes that the General occasionally lifted the fork to her mouth and chewed slowly, methodically, her blue eyes scanning paper after paper.

The corners of his lips tilted upwards as he continued his share of paperwork in much higher spirits. 'Take that, amateurs,' he praised himself, thinking about what Buccaneer had told him before lunch.

That night, when he returned to his room, he went straight to the window. He opened it widely and sniffed the air that invaded his austere room, the metallic edges of coldness bursting through his nostrils. He inhaled deeply and left the window opened as he went to bed to read.

He would close it before turning the lights out, but he would savour the clean air a little longer. It felt a bit stuffy in there. He snuggled in his coat and opened his book, thinking about the strange day that he'd had.

It had been a day of work, nothing impressive, though for the first time in his military career, he felt like he belonged somewhere. He was a stranger between the soldiers he was outranking and it was only his second night there - meaning he was perhaps drawing hasty conclusions - but he had a feeling that he would make a good living in Briggs. It was the kind of place people didn't want to land in, though he couldn't prevent himself from feeling a bit lucky.

It could have been much worse, he thought as he rose from the bed to look out the window at the white peaks of the mountain, sparkling in the moonlight.

* * *

A/N: That's it for now, it is still more of an introductory chapter, everyone has to meet everyone and so on. I hope you have enjoyed it and I'd really like to hear your thoughts on it. If you'd like, kindly leave a review, follow and favourite, I appreciate it. Thank you for reading!

Until the next time, bye bye!


	3. 3 – A Few Cold Beers

A/N: Mornin'! New chapter with a hint of development. The characters get to know each other a bit more, as to say. No warnings aply and the disclaimer that I don't own anything besides the plot and whatever characters I've came up with still stands. Other than this, please enjoy, and would you kindly leave me some feedback? Thank you for reading!

That being said, on we go...

* * *

Chapter 3 – A Few Cold Beers

Olivier burst through the office door, only to find it deserted. It was not surprising at all and she shouldn't have felt as disappointed as she did, given that it was barely six o'clock in the morning and they were opening the office at eight. There was no need for anyone to be there at that hour.

But there should have been, according to her.

She was feeling a bit like the daredevil, pushing her poor assistant's boundaries to unreasonable limits. It was his third week in his new position and he was adapting splendidly, but she kept on throwing him new challenges that he should not have been able to fulfil in the period that she had been requesting. She wanted to know what he was capable of, where his limitations were situated and how much she could count on his aid. He had done everything she had asked of him so methodically and with such ease, she actually sensed a tinge of irritation of being incapable to handle the tasks herself. She was buried neck-deep in papers that hinged her administrative work, that was true, but it stung to admit to herself that she needed help.

That was perhaps why she was working him so hard. Miles seemed to be a kind person and he was keen on making conversation, yet she all but hanged him from the ceiling. She ignored him, she snapped at him and glared at him most horrifyingly – like she was doing with everyone else, in fact - but he was infuriatingly persistent in being useful and agreeable. She wasn't used to making pleasantries, she had had enough of them when she had been living at her parent's house, but he was genuinely trying. He appeared to be clinking well with the other soldiers, especially with those who were in charge of the head departments of Fort Briggs.

She smirked. Captain Miles was a cunning man, she thought. He had gotten acquainted, one way or another, with the entire fort and he had made a smooth transition with those who either worked the hardest, or possessed the biggest mouths. That was a smart thing to do if you were new somewhere, she pondered, but she was surprised that he hadn't managed to insult anyone with that approach. Were her soldiers all that gullible of his congenial act not to see that he was not only smiles?

Olivier's eyes went wide. She realised that she might have to rethink her perception of the Captain. He was an affable man, yes, but she didn't believe he was that much of a nice person as he let.

For example, let's say, that morning, he was not in the office like he always had been since he'd arrived, making coffee before she showed up.

That was not a good reason, but well... Maybe that catastrophe on his part was because of the early hour and maybe, just maybe, due to the fact that he wasn't directly connected to her brain to know what the hell she wanted in real time. However, Olivier was clinging to any excuse of a flaw she found in him.

The Major General did not trust flawless people, nor did she trust those who were talking too much or too little or smiled to everyone. There had to be a balance, and she had yet to find it in her newest subordinate.

She knew Buccaneer, who was, at the moment, the third highest ranked officer. He was a hardworking bloke with keen common sense and a heart as big as ten when it came to helping others, but what he loathed the most was staying still. He had refused being promoted for many times, saying that it would mean he would have to sit his arse on a chair and do bureaucratic work. He had spent an entire month cutting icicles and unfreezing floors, wearing only the undershirt on his back and the thinnest of pants, but he still refused to get close to a desk. He helped when things got too thick, especially at the end of each trimester - that was when everyone jumped into saving Briggs from drowning in papers - but he would not hear of other desk work besides that.

That was why she had had to import a total stranger. She was not incapable by any means, but she was only one person who was already running on too little sleep to be considered healthy. Ashamed, she had been afraid that she would be taken as a fool when she had requested for an assistant, but apparently the entire Command had perceived her insane to be running such a huge place with so little people. And she couldn't deny that assumption - it wouldn't be ethical to criticise the higher-ups.

She had a few choice words for those higher-ups that she would love to express, but her head was thumping much too loudly to upset herself with that. Her stomach churned and she felt a little dizzy, determining her to believe that the advisable destination for her hadn't been the office, but the mess hall.

Olivier walked the corridors to the cafeteria with a raging headache from the lack of sleep. It made her thoughts graze her brain when they formed, but she had to make order in her ideas. She was thinking about a training programme, one that was more efficient and better suited for the climate, and she was formulating a plan for that. She thought that she should talk to Miles about it, see if he had any thoughts on the matter. A fresh perspective would not cause any harm.

When she turned around the corner, she bumped into Buccaneer, who almost tripped over her. Turning an inhuman shade of red, he started apologising profusely.

"Good morning, Major General," Miles said behind the tall Lieutenant who was starting to run out of apologies for nearly stepping on his commanding officer.

"-really sorry-"

"Lieutenant, if I hear one more apology, I swear I'm tying you to the flag post and leave you to the hawks' mercy," Armstrong cut Buccaneer off with a hint of bite. He nodded hurriedly and had to physically hold himself from apologising for unnerving her.

Miles wore a tiny smile, amused at how childish the huge man looked in front of the small woman. When said woman directed her icy stare to him, it all faded and his face turned into a blank mask. "We were heading to breakfast," he supplied to take off the edge. "Would you like to accompany us, Sir?"

He mentally cringed, sounding like he had just met some random lady at the hotel reception and was asking if she had someone to share the table with at the restaurant. Armstrong wasn't far from the same sensation and she regarded him eerily. The Ishbalan's red eyes watched a bit desperate for a steadier grasp at the conversation, but thankfully Buccaneer recovered from his stupor. "So, join us, General?"

Olivier nodded, leading the way. She saw a smaller shadow kicking a larger one and then a muffled thump, so she turned around. Both men looked at her with innocent eyes, but they were somehow managing to frown at each other at the same time.

She turned her head and sighed. She had four too many siblings for her taste – she knew what a childish brawl looked like. Only she was hoping that her subordinates had a bit more mind than her relatives, but they were not showing any positive signs for that.

They continued their trip to the belly of the fort, where the mess hall was located. Olivier's head was swimming too badly to hear anything besides the buzz in her ears, but she was aware of the murmur of chatting behind her. She struggled to muffle the noise in her head to listen to what the two officers were whispering about, but they had already gotten in front of the double doors, where it was louder than inside her skull. When she looked back, both Miles and Buccaneer were standing most silently.

Odd, she thought, but she pushed the doors open.

XXXXX

Miles finished drawing up the financial charts with a satisfied smirk. He was not particularly good at understanding the economic terms, but he knew how to work with numbers and make charts very well. Sergeant Redmyre, the red haired enlisted hand with too loud of a mouth, was the fort's splendid arithmetician and he was the one who had calculated everything for him, because Miles honestly had no idea how to do half of the things that were listed in there, and didn't understand a word of the other half.

Redmyre, for all his bad attitude and even worse mouth, had a knack for playing with the accountancy and he was the one dealing with everything that contained anything related to the finances. It was a surprise for Miles to find out that the Sergeant didn't have any schooling besides what was considered mandatory by the national laws.

That was a pity, he thought, but maybe he was drawing that conclusion because both of his parents were university professors and he had the tell-tale example of his mother who had cried herself to sleep for months after he had dropped out from the Sciences Department of the Eastern University to join the Officers Academy. Even his father, who was one of the most level-headed people he knew, had told him that he was making a fool's mistake and he was going to ruin his life. Miles himself still hadn't figured out why he had done it, but it was a few years too late to bother himself with such existential questions.

Reminding himself that he was in a different time than when he had been packing up his suitcase to go to the Academy, having his parents crying behind him and telling him he had gone insane, Miles looked over the papers he was holding up. His commanding officer was snoring on top of an opened glossary, her mouth slightly agape and drooling on the files under her head.

He had a mind of moving her from there, because she was going to wake up with a terrible crick, but she looked exhausted and he was afraid that he might wake her up. He threw a few more glances at her, trying to focus on what he had to do, but he could not leave her like that.

After he took his coat and hers from the hanger and left them on the desk, he slowly made his way to her. With a great deal of care, he lifted her up and moved her to the black couch that was suspiciously close to her desk. She must have spent many nights there.

Gingerly, he placed her head on his rolled up coat, a makeshift pillow that would ease the pain from her awkward sleeping positing. He draped her coat over her body so she wouldn't get cold. She grumbled something in her sleep and he thought that was the end of his too short existence, but she merely shifted without waking up.

He exhaled relieved and returned to his chair. He swung on the cushion, the seat rotating with him, then settled back to work after he had stolen one more glance at his blissfully slumbering superior. Almost like she was reading his thoughts, Armstrong let out an undignified snort and buried her nose in his coat, still asleep.

She must have been really exhausted and drained of energy if she had dropped dead like that. Miles looked at her one more time, then returned to reading reports, that time for real, and he smiled foolishly whenever his commanding officer mumbled in her sleep.

XXXXX

Olivier felt herself being shaken gently and she thought she might have heard something. She was not sure, but at least her head wasn't ringing anymore. But it appeared to be made of lead.

"Sir, wake up," the voice was saying. She opened her eyes and stared at the owner of the smooth voice. She blinked dully at Miles, who was hunching over her frame with a gentle expression and gently pushing her shoulder. When his crimson orbs met her steely ones, he straightened and clasped his hands behind his back, like he always seemed to do.

She slowly lifted her head from the pillow, only to notice it was suspiciously dark and it possessed some white fur. She looked at it again, then realised it was actually a uniform coat. She roamed her gaze around.

She was on the office couch.

"What is the meaning of this?" she demanded with bite. She took off the coat that was covering her and pushed it aside.

Miles' stance hadn't deterred and he regarded her coolly, very different from a moment before. "You have fallen asleep on the desk and I took the liberty to move you to the couch so your neck wouldn't hurt when you woke up."

"What hour is it?"

"Seven o'clock."

"In the evening?"

Miles shook his head. "No, in the morning. You have slept through the night. I reckoned now would be a good moment to wake you up, since your agenda-"

"Don't you ever do that again if you enjoy your life around here," she cut him off and looked straight into his eyes. To his credit, he didn't flinch. "Do you hear me, Captain?"

"Yes, Sir," he replied abruptly and saluted. "The day's schedule is on your desk. If I may be excused," he recited and saluted her again with the back of his hand.

"You may," she said and he turned around on the tip of his shiny boots, the skirt of his uniform pants rushing behind him.

Olivier plopped back on the makeshift pillow. She inhaled deeply and she was met with the pleasant fragrance of mint. She sniffed around and turned to have a better look at the coat under her head. She unrolled it and she found three stars sown to blue and yellow stripes, the signs of a Captain. She swallowed dryly, gawking at them. Carefully, she smoothed the coat's many wrinkles, then put it on the hamper.

She turned to her side of the office and saw that on her desk, which was unusually organised, resided a plate of hot omelette and a steaming mug of coffee.

She bit the inside of her cheek and stomped out of the room to clear her head off.

XXXXX

Miles purposefully made himself useful around the fort, as far away from the office as possible. They were expecting a great shipment of spare parts for the machineries and he over-exceeded in helping his colleagues with moving and looking through them. He shouldn't have, he was their supervisor, but he couldn't just watch them work and stand there with his hands in his pockets.

Just like he had done with his superior officer, he thought grimly as he stirred his tea during supper that evening. He was trying very hard to prove himself reliable and he had somehow thought that his position also meant that he was supposed to make sure his commander was fully functional – thing that she obviously wasn't.

He had seen her with the troops at training, he had seen her climb on tanks and get oily from all kinds of machines, and the conclusion he had drawn from that was that she was the multifunctional type of person. She was open to ideas and listened to whatever the soldiers were babbling about, keenly looking for innovations. Soldiers were visibly afraid of her, but they also respected her, very deeply. She inspired them and, even though she tried very hard not to show it, she was close to every one of them.

Almost every one of them, because she had outdone herself in making Miles feel like the lesser man. Whenever she could, she stood on the other corner of the room from him, she analysed his every move so clinically he felt almost naked in front of her and she appeared to be always judging him. Maybe it was just his paranoia with his superiors, but he didn't think he was awfully well appreciated. Not as a person, at least. Not that it hindered him professionally, but still.

Armstrong didn't deny his capabilities and she respected his work, that much was obvious, but she was waiting for a slip on his part. She was watching him like a tiger watched its prey, looking for a show of vulnerability to pounce on him and rip his throat. That was all he could make of their dynamics, which were far from being proper.

How did he manage to get along with the other soldiers, many of them two heads taller than him and looking like butchers, but he couldn't have a normal conversation with what appeared to be the only woman in the fort? Well, besides the doctor, though she was odd and didn't count. It was still early to be considering trusting each other, but he didn't think he would earn her cooperation if things continued that way.

They didn't call her The Wall of Briggs of nothing. She was unreachable, even if he could easily put his hand on her head and keep her in place as if she was a spinner.

"Miles!" Buccaneer said forcefully from his right side. "Mate, you're alright?"

Miles snapped his head up rather violently, making himself dizzy. He nodded without conviction. "Yes, why are you asking?"

"You've been stirring that tea for about ten minutes, I'm just saying," the Lieutenant replied and nudged his shoulder. "Is the queen giving you a hard time? I told you she's not a cake."

"That's an understatement."

"Eh, I suppose it is, but she's got a good heart somewhere. I don't know where, but it's there." He chuckled. "She's just being difficult with you because you're a new warm-weather bloke, that's all. She'll come around, eventually."

"Hmh," Miles hummed. He reminded himself that he hadn't been stationed for that long there. It was strange that he was already feeling like he had been living in the fort for years when, in fact, it had been less than a month since he had walked through snow to get there.

Buccaneer pocked his arm with the teeth of his fork. "Don't you 'hmh' at me, Sir," he said with fake seriousness.

"Hmh."

"Ta, you're so cute when you're acting like a mule."

Miles blinked slowly and smirked sweetly, looking straight into the taller man's eyes behind his powdery white lashes. "My, Lieutenant! Are you... hitting on me?"

"Pff, you should try that look on the queen, she'd probably faint," Buccaneer jested and elbowed the Ishbalan.

Miles chuckled mirthfully. "Why, 'cause I'm too cute to resist?"

Buccaneer put his hands on his chest and gasped dramatically. "Oh Gods," he moaned like he was dying, "Wanna come see my room, Captain?" he asked, his breath coming out in short puffs. Miles snorted and the huge officer started laughing loudly.

"Well, divagating from that disturbing prospect," Miles said, still smiling, "I've found the perfect tablecloth for poker."

"Aha, I knew you weren't as cute as you look," Buccaneer mumbled. "Rubbing at my wounds, aren't you? Wasn't it enough that you've cleared the table? You shouldn't be allowed to play cards, Miles!"

"That's exaggerating, I've only been lucky," the Ishbalan made indignantly.

"Yeah, five days in a row!"

"As I was saying, I've found a good tablecloth so you would stop complaining that the cards slip and that's why you've lost."

Buccaneer glared at him and Miles smiled mellowly, taking a sip from his tea. It was cold from how much he had stirred it.

"So, Captain, are you ready to take our money again?" the doctor said in greeting and seated herself on the bench opposite from them.

Miles had been accepted in the occasional get-togethers of the soldiers he usually sat at table with, a time when they did what all self-respecting soldier did, and that was playing poker and other supposedly illicit gambling games. They were all seasoned players, but Miles was coming from a place where cards were injected in people's veins since they were born. None of them expected his aggressive methods at the game, but again, they didn't know what card games meant to the Easterners.

"I'm bringing the drinks tonight," he noted.

The doctor nodded impressed. "I didn't take you as that much of an idiot as to buy booze for all those drunken heads," she said candidly, "but suit yourself, as long as it's free. So, what's for dinner? Buc, is there something crawling in your plate?" she asked Buccaneer, who was devouring his lunch most viciously.

"Ney, I've eaten them vermin already," he replied with a mouthful. "Protein source, you know," he told Miles.

Miles looked down at his untouched meal, which looked pretty decent for military rations, and flinched. "Ugh," he made disgustedly. He pushed the tray away and went to take more tea.

XXXXX

Olivier avoided interaction with her assistant as much as she could that day. She could have been civil about the little gaffe from the morning, but she was embarrassed of herself. She had never fallen asleep like that. She hadn't even realised that she was that tired when her eyes had dropped.

Miles had acted very professional after her burst, but he still shouldn't have done what he had. He should have subtly woken her up when he had seen her asleep and pretend nothing had happened.

Darn, hadn't she slept well, she thought bitterly. It had been one of the most restful nights she had gotten in years and she should be more thankful for it. Miles had been very thoughtful to take care of her, to put her somewhere cosier. He had woken her up gently and had looked at her patiently, as if she were his sister, not like some creep who had watched her sleep and had done Gods know what while she had been unconscious.

Olivier couldn't remember a time when someone who wasn't related to her had acted so considerate towards her. She really had to stop her tough act if she wanted to have a good working relationship with her assistant, since he was actually making efforts.

He had behaved splendidly the entire day, like a proper subordinate. He hadn't asked her anything, had only answered when questioned, he had given her papers without a word and when he had had to talk, he had reported so monotonously, he had sounded like someone else. It was a bit sad, Olivier thought, because she had somehow gotten used to his easy-going manner. She wouldn't have realised he was such a pleasant character to be around if he hadn't started acting like a dumb soldier who didn't question anything he was being told.

'Though he shouldn't have done what he had,' she repeated in her head. She shouldn't have snapped at him, but he was the one who had been unethical first.

She snorted. What was she, a child? Who had done it first? What was with that thinking?

She jumped out from bed. It was late, but she knew that the guys were meeting for a game over a few drinks. It wasn't permitted by the military regulations, but she had always turned the blind eye as long as they did it outside of their working hours.

She grabbed her coat and left the bedroom, looming to a lower floor of the fort, where the doctor's office was. They usually met in the adjoined storage room, where they had built a makeshift table and some chairs from wooden crates.

She was pleased to find Karley, Neil, Redmyre, Henschel and the doctor around the wooden box that served as a table. Buccaneer was standing up, taking bottles out of an opened crate. "Oh, Sir, good of you to join us," he said and offered her a beer, which was surprisingly cold. White mist was coming up from the box. "It's from the ice, Captain Miles brought it from the roof."

Olivier nodded and took a seat. She opened her bottle and clanged the neck against the others' bottles. Redmyre was dealing the cards most meticulously, a cigarette dangling out from his mouth. He looked up. "Ay, Sir," he made and palpated his chest pocket. He got out a flat box and gave it to her. "Take one, if you'd please, an' tell me what you're thinkin'."

She turned the box on each side. "Another innovation of yours, Red?" She opened it and took out a cigar, thick as a thumb, and rolled it around her fingers.

"No-oh, these are the real deal," Neil said and helped himself from Redmyre's box. "You owe me a truck of cigarettes, so you shut up," he told to the red haired soldier, who raised his hands in defence.

Draft suddenly emerged in the warm deposit, signalling that someone entered. Olivier turned around to look at the door.

"I think this will do the trick, it even has the good colour," a voice said cheerily. Miles' smile faded slightly when he met Olivier's eyes, but he regained it immediately. He went to the table, his brilliantly coloured robe floating around his ankles, and passed a green cloth to Neil, who unfolded it for inspection.

"Tch, you'll give us a headache with your clothes one of these days, Cap'," the doctor said and threw him a set of keys. He caught it, took a bottle from the crate and opened it with the teeth of a key.

"Now it's my coat the reason why you're losing at the games? You people don't know how to lose," he said and took a seat on one of the free crates that were used as chairs. "We really should use chips instead of money," he suggested with faked exasperation. "I hate to take all of your wages, every time."

Everyone started laughing at Miles' modesty, but Olivier stood there with Redmyre's cigar between the tips of her fingers, staring at her assistant's appearance.

His hair was untied, swept back and falling on his shoulders, framing his strong jaw and pointy chin. A singular lock was falling into his red eyes, bringing its radiance out against his dark skin. His hair looked smooth and shiny, seemingly whiter than when it was tied. Even his sideburns looked like they were glowing on his high cheeks.

Miles noticed she was looking strangely at him, but he thought she was only glaring because of their swift brawl in the morning. She was staring very intently. He raised an eyebrow, not knowing quite what to say.

It appeared that the rest of the men in the room had noticed her long gaze. She took a swing from the bottle, breaking the eye contact. "Shit, it's bright," she crinkled her nose and pointed to the collar of his shirt.

Miles smiled. "I say, you need to start a club for criticising my clothes," he said and pushed his hair back. He rummaged through the pocket of his robe and got out a lighter. He opened its cap and ignited the gas. He pointed with the tip of the fire to Olivier, who was idly holding the cigar in her hand. She had forgotten that she was holding it. She put it between her lips and leaned forward to catch the flame.

After the cigar's head had ignited, Miles extended his hand over the table to Neil's unguarded pack of cigarettes. He took one and lit it, then put the lighter in the middle of the table for the rest if they needed it.

With that little break, Olivier snatched a glance at the horrifyingly bright house robe that her assistant was wearing. The fabric was dyed in a horizontal combination of something which resembled burgundy that was fading brusquely into violent orange and it had big diamonds drawn over. The colours were sparkling in the electric light, brought out by his pink and blue flowery shirt and dark brown pants.

He looked surprisingly natural wearing that coat over a freaking flowery shirt. It was trimmed with chequered fur, for crying out loud, but he didn't look one inch unfitted. He was somewhat... handsome, in that assortment. Somewhat.

He was a solar man, she noted. Only those who loved the sun could possibly pull out such a dreadful combination and look like they'd had what they were wearing tailored especially for them. She wasn't one to look at clothes, but it was impossible not to notice him looking like a tree decoration. For one, she wouldn't have been able to wear orange with her pale skin, she would look ridiculous. But he, on the other hand... oh, well, she might have gotten a bit too appreciative of his dark skin.

Neil placed the green tablecloth on the central crate, mimicking a proper poker table. Redmyre cleared his throat and started dealing the cards. "General, you playin'?"

Olivier glared dangerously and Redmyre nodded. "A'right then, that's an affirmative," he said and gave everyone their cards. They played the first hand and Miles cleared the table of all cenz.

A bit distracted, Armstrong didn't hear the other soldiers grumbling about their loss. She fixed the dark hand of the Ishbalan with her eyes, elegantly holding the fuming cigarette between his middle and index finger. She tried to remember a moment when he had smelt of smoke or when she had seen him smoking, but she didn't find any. Was he an occasional smoker, like her? She usually did it when she was playing cards or drinking with the other soldiers, or when she wanted to strangle someone and wasn't allowed to.

His little gesture of raising his hand to his mouth and then blowing out the smoke with a brilliant smile made something snap in her head.

She knew absolutely nothing about him. How was she supposed to find out if he was trustworthy if she didn't even know his habits? She was expecting to make a loyal assistant out of someone she hadn't bothered to talk to. That was not how it worked.

The next hands played out similarly, until finally Olivier won for the first time. After that, the rest of the night continued with the shifting of money from Miles to Armstrong, who were taking turns in winning.

"You know we love you, General," Karley said with a yawn while they were cleaning up the place to go to rest, "but both you and Miles should be banned from these games."

"You really don't know how to lose," Olivier said unimpressed and looked at her assistant. He was throwing the empty bottles away in a box labelled as 'Light Bulbs'. "I say we keep on taking these wankers' money, Captain," she said, feeling a bit airy from drinking so much.

Miles' eyes shot up at her. He smiled. "I say we do that, Sir," he agreed and closed the box with the empty bottles. They usually kept them in case they needed to make home-explosives or the guys in the chemistry department were trying their luck with preserves. They made some damn good pickles and their sour kraut was to die for.

"What I say is that we should buy poker chips," Henschel mumbled, burying his hands in his pockets. "You've left us without a cenz."

"Shit, we should play on candy," the doctor exclaimed as she took out a caramel from her office coat. "That, I have a ton."

"We definitely should," Miles nodded fervently. "I say we play on lollipops, I'm dying for one," he said chuckling breathily.

Buccaneer regarded him quizzically. "You sure like licking things, mate."

"You've no idea. Why, Lieutenant, are you, ahem," he coughed suggestively, "up for something?"

"Heavens, Miles, you should stop drinking so much coffee," Neil said with familiarity, lighting another cigarette. "You're talking really stupid when you've got too much caffeine in your blood. And coffee and alcohol don't mix well."

"Perhaps I should," Miles admitted. "Anyway, see you all tomorrow."

Buccaneer's arms shot up in the air, mimicking a spoiled brat who wasn't having his way done. "What? I thought you were seeing me tonight!"

"I will see you in your dreams," Miles replied sweetly and burst into laughter at Henschel's scandalised face. "Drinking less coffee, got it," he said breathlessly between chuckles, waving his hand and blowing a kiss at Buccaneer, who giggled boyishly.

They said their goodnights and everyone left the storage room, everyone excepting Miles and Armstrong. She was staring at one of the crates, the wheels in her head visibly turning.

Miles studied her from head to toe, then decided he had another gamble to make for the night. "It's rather stuffy in here, if you'd ask me," he said cordially. "I'm heading for the roof, would you like to come up for some air?"

Olivier's blue eyes shifted to him. "Alright," she agreed and followed him out of the deposit.

She walked by his side, keeping a fair distance between them. They didn't talk for the entire duration of the trip to one of the staircases to the rooftops, but she opened her mouth when Miles raised his leg to climb up the first step. "I know a better spot, follow me."

He nodded and trailed after her to a secluded trap into the ceiling. They climbed the ladder to it and exited the warmth of the fort's corridors and entered into the chilly air of the night.

Miles had to admit, the view was splendid from that place. He could see the mountains so much better than from where he usually sat when he wanted to breathe some clean air. He wasn't as familiar as he wanted with the many corridors of the fortification, but he was slowly learning its nooks and crannies.

"It is better, I must admit," he said gingerly.

She hummed in approval. Her hair was brushed back by the wind and she revelled in the cold, her entire body feeling rejuvenated. She looked at the many stars on the dark sky and at the moon, lighting up the night.

She chanced a swift glance at her subordinate and noticed he was gazing at the sky as well, only that he was holding his arms tightly around his middle. He was shivering slightly, but he was wearing a little lost smile on his face, the moon leaving a shadow on the hollow of his cheeks.

"You're cold," Olivier stated awkwardly, not knowing how to address him.

"A bit, yes," he admitted and shrugged. "I love looking at the night sky, but I am still not as used as I would like to be to this weather. Nights are the hardest, but at least, I am trying."

"Is it so hard to adapt to it?" she asked and then swallowed thickly. She might have sounded a bit offending.

He didn't show any irritation. He nodded, his swept back hair waving up and down with his head. "Snow is easy, it's just like sand, only that it is wet. And the cold is not that bad, it's not like I've lived in the desert or something."

Olivier looked taken aback. "Really?"

"Mhm, yes. I've spent a lot of time in Ishbal, it's true, but I've never really lived there. Mostly, I've visited my maternal grandparents and a few of my millions of aunts, uncles and cousins. My parents live in the East, they lecture at the University there."

"Oh," she made sheepishly. That's what she had thought about – she knew nothing about those things and she was still expecting a good collaboration. Her father, who had been an officer until he had retired, once had told her that trust and respect is built upon a solid base of mutual knowledge. She had been testing his abilities and searching for his weaknesses when she hadn't understood him.

Nor that he knew more about her, besides that she was quite a difficult character. Miles rubbed up his sides, warming himself up. He should have taken his coat, but it was still in the office.

She poked at his shoulder. "Take this," she said and offered him her coat. His eyebrows shot up and she shook her head. "Take it, you'll freeze yourself and catch a cold. I don't need sick subordinates."

He took the coat and draped it over his shoulders. It was a bit too small for him, but it was warm. "Thank you, Sir," he said and she dismissed him with the back of her hand.

"You were saying something about your relatives," she spoke up.

Miles turned his head in surprise, but he smiled nonetheless. They were making tremendous progress if she started asking him about things. She was perhaps trying to find out more about whom she was working with. "Well, you see, I am not actually Ishbalan."

"Um... how does that work?" she asked, pointing to his face. "You look like one."

"I mean I am not a real adept, nor am I fully Ishbalan. I only look so because my mother's father is a full Ishbalan, but in rest, name one neighbouring country and I have an ancestor from them. My grandmother is from Aerugo and she's blonde, if that helps, and my mother turned up with green eyes and dark brown hair. Her skin is much lighter than mine."

"Hm, that's interesting. And your father?"

"A bit of Drachma, a bit of Creta, a bit of Amestris, I'd say. Some distant Xing ancestry," he said and patted the corner of his eye with his index finger.

"Your people didn't leave any nations unchecked, hm?"

"Told you so. My family has a few jokes about dipping in foreign waters, as to say."

She chortled. "Well, it must be nice, having so many cultures as heritage," Olivier said dreamily. "I've got Amestris running from head to toe. If you see any of my relatives, you'd be drowning in blue-eyed and blonde idiots."

He chuckled. "My folks are colourful, that's a fact. It's funny when a child is born and it doesn't look like the father, it's a marvellous thing to determine paternity."

"I bet!" Olivier said triumphantly. "I guess your dad had a bit of a heart attack when you were born," she joked and stilled, realising she might have really insulted him with her remark. That was why she didn't enjoy engaging in social activities, she could turn crass very fast.

Thankfully, Miles only chuckled. "Pf, that's an understatement. But he got around it, we are too similar not to be related."

They left it at that, continuing to look at the stars. Olivier bit her lips and decided to open up a bit, too. "I've got four younger siblings that are nothing like me," she said. "We don't really look alike, apart from having blonde hair and sparkling personalities."

'Hm, she's making jokes about her?' he thought surprised. That was what he called 'breaking the ice'.

She shook her head. "Yeah, family reunions are fun, you're dinning with the most pompous people who had ever walked this earth. No wonder I haven't seen them in years," she spat.

"That's a pity. I am certain they miss you very much."

Olivier was starting to feel uncomfortable with the topic, so she changed the subject abruptly. "I was thinking that you should be drawing up a new training program. You said snow and sand are similar, I could use that knowledge."

"Of course, Sir," he agreed smoothly. He had lost her there, when he had said that thing about her family. Ales, that information told a lot about her. "When would you like to see a draft?"

"Tomorrow, before noon," she demanded sharply.

"Yes, Sir," he nodded.

She swallowed again. For some reason, she didn't want to end their conversation, even if she was feeling the metaphorical ice under her feet cracking. "The soldiers seem to approve of you," she said carefully, her voice devoid of anything.

"They are good men, I have to admit. Some people believe that Briggs it's full of savages, but no one had given me that impression. I've learnt that making yourself look like one of your subordinates helps the transition very much, and I reckon it still stands true."

"That is why you were helping with the unloading today?"

"Mhm, partially. It's also because I hate standing by idly, but I've noticed that the enlisted tend to prefer officers sweating with them to those who give orders and do nothing," Miles offered sagely. "It's a thing about levelling yourself with the masses without appearing conceited."

"So that's what you're doing? Fooling others into obedience?"

"No, no. Loyalty, actually. In case you hadn't notice, Sir," he continued, "I am not really well fitted in here. I am just exploiting my social skills. I will tell you something, Sir, and it's meant with no disrespect – soldiers usually want a middle man who is not like their commander."

Olivier narrowed her eyes. "What do you mean?"

"You work alongside them, yes, but they fear you. It's a good fear, one born out of utter respect, mind that. But what I've noticed is that you are unreachable, General, and people only dream of being in your good graces. I'm offering them a kind face, that's all. This way, they start relying more on me, so I win their trust without looking like I want to overthrow order. Which, naturally, I don't. And they start feeling closer to you, because they have the chance to communicate with you through someone else, someone who is lower than you, but not that much higher from them. I've been a Lieutenant not that long ago, after all."

Armstrong regarded him in awe. He was a cunning man, she had been right. And she had found his flaw, at last.

He was a manipulator by nature.

"What did you exactly do before coming here, Captain Miles? Your file does not detail most of your missions, if any."

"I cannot tell you that, even if you are my direct superior," he retorted, "but I must say I am not proud of everything I had to do."

She smirked. There were skeletons. She had picked up the good man for the job, she thought. "No proper officer should be proud of everything they had done," Olivier agreed conspiratorially. "It's, unfortunately, not in our ways."

"That is a fair assessment, Sir," he said and snuggled better in the borrowed coat. "Major General, I mean to apologise for my behaviour from this morning," he added. There was nothing to be sorry for from his part, but he wanted to show a bit of acknowledgement of her boundaries. "I have many younger relatives and I am used to pick them up and put them to bed. I am really sorry, it's just an occupational hazard."

Olivier let out a little laugh, a sound so sincere that made Miles not know what to do with his hands. He clutched the coat tighter.

She looked at him with wide eyes. "The hazard of being the oldest in the midst of a litter of toddles, I know. I used to gather up my sisters from around the house to tuck them in when they had been younger, you know. Thankfully, my brother had had the decency to drag himself to his own bed, because I am not sure I would have been able to lift him up. I-" she trailed on, "I would like to apologise for my reaction, as well."

Miles acknowledged it nonverbally. Any word he would have said, he would have rendered her uncomfortable and he didn't want that. They were supposed to be a team, they needed to anticipate what would lift or make the other collapse.

Or, at least, he did, because he had yet to know about her mental processing. All that he needed was to get himself buried at the base of the mountain because he hadn't thought something through. That wouldn't do, not at all. It wasn't that much of a marvellous prospect.

With that in mind, he took off the coat and offered it back to its owner. "Thank you, Sir," he said respectfully, regarding her honestly.

"Yes, it's rather late," she said without having a previous sentence to agree with. His gesture seemed to be the end of their conversation, so she took the coat back, grateful not to have been put in some awkward situation by him. She didn't think she had anything else to say, so she took it upon herself to re-establish the perfect balance of spending time alone on the rooftops, something he had disrupted with his kind offer. "I'll stay a bit longer, but you may be excused," she told him with finality.

"Thank you. Goodnight, General," Miles said with a smile. He didn't salute her like he did in the morning, he only hugged his sides tightly to make his way back to his room without freezing.

"Goodnight, Captain," Armstrong said without turning around, continuing to gaze at the stars.

She was carefully calculating the odds. She had been offered the flaw she had been so desperate to find in him, and she had replied with something of her own. He was playing an interesting game and she was intrigued by his moves.

Olivier had played her card for that round and it was his time to move again. For some reason, she was looking forward to seeing with what he would come up next.

But he needn't know that.

* * *

A/N: Ta-da, that's it for now. Thank you for reading and I really hope you've enjoyed it. If you'd like, follow, favourite and review, I'm really thankful for them all.

Until the next time, bye bye!


	4. 4 – Missed Vocations

A/N: 'Morning! Here's a new chapter of this story, which is slowly making some progress so we can get to the actual thing. In case someone's wondering where the more intense action will begin, well, you will have to wait for a bit more, but anyway – I hope you'll enjoy this and I'd love to know what you think!

As usual, I own nothing besides the plot and the original characters, and, for warnings, there will be a bit of stronger language, but nothing significant.

These being said, on we go...

* * *

Chapter 4 – Missed Vocations

It was another clear morning in Briggs and it was snowing lightly, with big white flakes that melted as soon as they touched the soldiers' coats. The weather did not possess too much force in that late spring and the temperatures were going higher, as much as they could in a place that was forever covered in snow and ice.

Miles looked over at the wide horizon, brightly lit by the sun. Summer – which didn't differ in any way from spring or autumn, only that it was slightly warmer - was about to come soon. As he was, at least technically, in charge of supervising the goings of the fort, Miles was supposed to check on the state of a particular part of the rooftops, where the water had eaten up from the structure during the previous winter. However, he had gotten completely side-tracked by the beauty of the landscape. It had been a while since he had come to Briggs, but he could not get enough of the sterile white of the mountain, just as bleached as his hair and oh, so very dazzling.

A large hand clasped his back, startling him from his daze. "Look at you, drinking your coffee with no worry in the world while the entire fort hates you," Buccaneer boomed in his ear and squeezed his shoulder a notch too tight. Miles flinched and shook out of the bone-crushing clutch.

"I'll pretend to know what you mean," he gurgled and darted away from the big soldier.

Buccaneer grinned widely at him. "Sure you do, Sir! I mean that brilliant training of yours! Everyone has you on their lips, all day long, you know that? 'Ouch, it hurts here, ouch, it hurts there...' They say you're just as evil as the queen, mate! Your hair's gonna turn blonde, you listen to me!"

Around a month before, Armstrong had asked Miles to draw up a plan of training for the soldiers to work in the climate better. The Captain, diligent in fulfilling his orders, shared his extensive knowledge in handling the dunes of the desert and elaborated a proper training program, more efficient than the one that had been suggested by the military.

Therefore, he had started preaching about how sand and snow were almost the same and that they were easy to master.

Obviously, not a soul had been agreeing with him so far, apart from the commander – who had always drawn a sadistic pleasure out of seeing men twice her size struggle – and his newly acquired friend, Lieutenant Buccaneer. The man was actually happy to run around in the snow and joyfully confessed that it reminded him of his childhood.

On the other hand, the rest of their subordinates were aching everywhere from the exercises and they did everything to show it, as loud as their lungs carried.

"Ugh, it's not my fault they have no endurance," Miles commented idly and took another sip from his coffee that he mercifully hadn't spilled on himself when Buccaneer had made his appearance. "It's surprising how few know how to walk on snow. We are literally sleeping on it."

"The mountain patrol has always been deficient, I suppose."

"Deficient?" Miles made, motioning with his mug. "That's an understatement, I have no idea how none of them had started an avalanche by now!"

"Eh, fool's luck," Buccaneer said mirthfully, stretching a bit. "So, what're you doing up here? Came for a bit of sight-seeing?"

Miles sighed and shook his head. "I'd wish," he retorted. "I should go and check on the damned roof, I'm supposed to be searching for any missed leaks and stuff, just in case."

"Mm, good for you," the big officer hummed. He protruded his lips in thinking. "Actually, I've just realised a thing."

"Hm?"

"You've never scraped any icicles off, have you now?"

Miles snorted. The famous icicle-hunt, as he had dubbed it in his head, the fort's favourite past time activity. Not that they could avoid doing it, it could get seriously dangerous if the sills weren't cleaned of ice. "No, I have not," he replied smoothly and dusted the small flecks of snow off the fur around his neck.

"Darn, I had to do it for almost a year and I still am on scraping duty from time to time," Buccaneer complained. "How come you've never done it? This is freshmen's work and, pardon my frankness, mate, but you are one."

"Ah. Simple, my friend," the Ishbalan said with a cruel smirk. "These hands aren't made for such crude labour," he sung sassily and drew a winding line with his index finger.

Buccaneer burst into laughter and patted him on the shoulder. That time, Miles did spill his coffee all over his boots. Annoyed, the Captain planted the tip of each of his boots in the first pile of snow he found, washing the sticky liquid away.

By his side, the Lieutenant was still laughing. "You princess, are you too delicate for that? Afraid you might break, are you?"

"Watch it, Lieutenant," Miles addressed him without any heat, "I might just make it your permanent position, since you love it so much."

"Tch, evil like the queen, they're right," the other muttered, barely chocking out the words around his giggling. "Come on, mate, let's check on your blasted roof," he said once his laughter subsided and motioned for Miles to follow him.

The Captain only shrugged and went after the other officer. He was thankful that he would have some company in his task, that way they might find the remaining problems faster than on his own.

Two hours later, they finished mapping the entire Eastern section of the wall. Miles scraped in his notebook while Buccaneer bent to look at every possible corner, making sure no other surface had any damages left after the winter.

Just as they were making their way back to the office, Karley rushed after them, waving frantically with a piece of torn-out paper. "Oi, Captain! CAPTAIN!" he yelled after them.

Miles turned around on his heels. He patiently waited for the communication officer to catch his breath, who was clutching at his chest as he held out his hand. "Here, it-it's for you," Karley gasped breathlessly. "I should get back, we're having a right mess with the transmissions, 'cause Drachma'd thought it funny to send some random lines just to get us all riled up and we're so fuckin' them back!" he said wildly, motioning with his hands.

"Shove it hard from us, too," Miles replied approvingly, making the wheezing officer grin.

"Sure do," Karley beamed. "Sorry, I really should go back," he apologised hastily and snapped a salute, that wide smile not leaving his face. The other two officers saluted as well and watched the dark haired man run down the corridor, towards the Radio Room.

"That's the spirit, mate!" Buccaneer chortled. "Bang'em hard and bang'em good!"

"Yeah, yeah, whatever you say," Miles said unimpressed. "I don't fully understand this feud of yours, but I admire your enthusiasm in standing in Drachma's way. In virtually any way, but still. It's rather admirable to have so much passion shared with others."

"You and your 'non-violence' bullshit," Buccaneer blurted. "You might be saying that we could solve all of our problems over a cuppa, without beating each other to the pulp, but me, I go by my Grandma's words. Actually, have I ever told you I that 've got Drachmann blood?" he asked and spit on the floor.

"Only about a thousand times, and you're going to wipe the floors with your tongue if you keep on spitting on them every time you tell me that."

Buccaneer didn't seem in any way discouraged by that, so he just ranted on. "Well, my dear old Grandma, and mark my words, she was from Drachma, said that when I grow up, I go kick some good Drachmann arses, because they deserve what they'll be getting! All the shit the poor her got when she married my good old Grandpa, all that humiliation just because he was Amestrian!"

Miles would have dared say that it hadn't been Drachma's entire fault for the problems Buccaneer's grandparents had faced when they had been young, but any words would have gone right past his friend. The bug of protecting Amestris from its ancestral enemy sort of caught on the quarter Ishbalan - who, as a matter of fact, did have some heavily diluted Drachmann blood in his veins - though he didn't see any of it as anything more than his duty as a soldier, and not even that.

It just wasn't his fight. He was only helping with the administration of a border fort and training the soldiers, nothing more than that.

He shook his head and looked at the piece of paper. He read the short telegraph note and winced. "Oh, come on!"

Buccaneer stopped from his vendetta and looked at the other man. "What's the matter?"

"Here, read," Miles said and gave him the note.

"Oh, so... Central wants the first semester's full rapport of activity by the week's end? That's like, what, a thousand papers in four days? It's Thursday, you know."

"Not even two full days, because the royal buggers in Central have weekends and we're going to send someone to make the way to North City to deliver them! Shit, they were due for the next month! We're having other projects right now, for crying out loud!" Miles made exasperated. "Fuck this, we don't even have all the reports done!"

The Lieutenant measured his fellow officer quizzically, never having seen him so riled up by anything. Now that he thought of it, he didn't think he had ever seen him angry or at least remotely annoyed.

"Look, we can ask for a delay..."

"No, we cannot, they want to make a laughing stock out of us and we're not having that," Miles spoke sharply and pointed his empty mug at Buccaneer's chest. "You, go announce everyone to postpone any activity that isn't of vital importance and start writing their reports. Good, bad, blotched grammar – it doesn't matter. I need them. Tell them to just write what they have to write and then give them to you. I want reports coming every other hour, hear me?" he snapped, his snowy ponytail bobbing up and down with his head. "I'll go talk to the General and start doing our share of the deal."

"Okay...," Buccaneer mumbled, a bit lost, not knowing what to do when the usually calm man was acting so volcanically.

Miles faced the other way and started striding towards the office. He stopped abruptly and looked over his shoulder. "BUC!" he shouted right before the big Lieutenant would have turned around the corner.

"HUH?" Buccaneer shouted back.

"Find me a lot of coffee and cigarettes, whatever you can get, and bring them to me!" Miles demanded then resumed his rush to the General. "And I mean a lot!"

He burst through the office door, finding Armstrong looking over some schemes. She looked up at him, most unnerved for being interrupted during her strategy planning. "Captain, I hope you have a good expla-"

"We've got word from Central, Karley gave this to me," Miles interrupted her in his effervescent state, even forgetting to mention her rank. Armstrong raised her eyebrows and extended her hand, taking the note from him.

She frowned. "These bloody rats are trying to make an incompetent out of me, now that I have an assistant? Slimy bastards," she cursed. "We-"

"I've told Buccaneer to announce everyone about this," Miles interjected her speech again, but he couldn't stop. Her mouth remained half-opened, almost as if she didn't believe that he was talking over her.

"Captain, I'm warning you-"

"You said it yourself that they want to make you look like an incompetent because you've demanded for an assistant, yes? Sir," he added hastily, finally realising how his mouth had ran ahead of him. She nodded, closing her mouth. He took it as his cue to continue. "We will prove them wrong, but we need to start working right ahead."

Olivier nodded again, still annoyed by his burst. She walked around her desk and took out some heavy-looking glossaries from the shelves, putting them one over the other on the low coffee table in front of the couch. Miles took the typewriter he had accidentally discovered in the to-be-quashed bin a few days before and made his way to the leather coach. He suddenly stopped when he saw his commander take a seat right next to where he was headed.

She rolled her eyes and patted the spot on her right. "Don't unnerve me more than you've already done, Captain," she growled.

Miles sat down gingerly. Armstrong pulled out a few pens and pencils from her pockets and threw them in the little space that separated them. She placed one of the pens between her teeth and she gave him a thick file. "Start with this," she ordered him and got out her forms.

Miles prepared the paper on the typewriter and placed the machine on the table. He leaned forward, put his elbows on his knees and started clapping down. His hands started moving fast, the chipped keys screeching under his fingers.

By the time Buccaneer entered the office, he had finished the first file and Armstrong threw him another. "There you go," the Lieutenant said and handed Miles some formerly crumpled and poorly smoothed sheets. "Sorry for that," he pointed to the messed up papers, "everyone is rushing and there wasn't anything to write on. I've got the boys to find some proper paper."

The Major General looked over the blotchy reports and then to the long list of forms she had to complete. That could wait, she decided. "Keep writing those, I'll check these," she told Miles and took the first report from the pile. "Buccaneer, keep them rolling," she added and started reading.

"Yes, Sir," Buccaneer replied. "Oh, I've almost forgotten – found this for you, I'm pouring it now," he added and took the mug Miles had carried around on the rooftops. "General, do you want coffee?"

"Where did you get it from?" she asked without looking up.

"Nicked it from the Engineering Team, they can make another one."

"Take the mug from my desk," Olivier made as she cut an entire sentence and rewrote it. "Miles, you should do a grammar course with these idiots."

"I'll keep that in mind, Sir," the Ishbalan spoke over the loud noise of the old typewriter. He might have been looking like he was trying to stab the machine with his fingers, but it was faster that way. He only hoped that it wouldn't give up on him before he finished.

Buccaneer brought the mugs and left them on the table with what remained in the kettle he had snatched. "Take them, they're from everyone I could find with spares," he said and emptied his pockets. "I've gotten you a lighter, too, but take care of it, it's Neil's favourite. For good luck, he said."

Miles looked at the table at the heap of half-full packs of cigarettes and some others that were loose and rolling towards the typewriter machine.

"That's all I could find..."

Miles shook his head. "It's perfect, thank you. Go shake the others."

"Sure do. Sirs," Buccaneer saluted before he left the room.

Olivier crooked her neck to see what her assistant was doing on his side of the table. He took a big gulp of the coffee and cringed, took another one and put the mug down. He gathered all the cigarettes to his right and picked the one that was the furthest away from him. He pointed a finger to the rest, as in questioning her if she wanted one.

"No, I think I'll pass," she said, trying to sound casual. In truth, she was awfully surprised, because she had only seen Miles smoking once and that was quite a pile he had got there, not to mention one that was consisting in whatever the guys in the fort had left in their packets.

"Sir, do you mind?" he asked and shook the lighter, on which a quite unashamed woman was depicted fully naked. So that was what Neil had meant about good luck. 'Men,' she thought and clicked her tongue on her teeth.

"No, just... Give me one, too," she made abruptly, "One that looks better."

Miles picked a surprisingly intact cigarette and offered it to his commander. She placed it between her lips and he ignited the lighter under it. Olivier looked at him as she took the first drag, their eyes meeting a little too intensely for working environment.

She quickly averted her eyes and resumed reading the reports. Miles planted an empty ceramic flower pot that usually worked as a paper bin between them and began typing again, the cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth as he abused the old writing machine he had salvaged from being melted for metal. The fresh black paint he had applied on it when he had reconditioned it was shining in the artificial light. He had written a little name on the bottom of its body, Tina, because that was _Tina the Typewriter_.

Olivier didn't understand why he had had to scrape for that piece of dung instead of taking a new machine, which they actually had in inventory, but she didn't mind it. Currently, Tina was groaning under Miles' fingers and was working the way a retiring hound would - huffing in front of its owner, chasing for that fox in the woods, but trying its best not to show it was tired and so, so old.

 _Tina the Black and Ancient Typewriter_ suited Miles just fine, it seemed, and he almost seemed to reverently stroke the carriage when he was moving it back into position.

Armstrong stole another glance at his face, hazy behind all that smoke, and returned to correcting the eye-bleeding mistakes on the reports.

Papers jumping into his hands at wrist-breaking speed - since he was writing, evidently - Miles hadn't noticed his superior obsessively tugging her hair behind her ear. That, until her elbow bumped into his arm.

He shifted his gaze to her and stopped typing, Tina making a strange noise when he removed his hands from the keyboard. His knuckles groaned as he untied his ponytail, his snowy locks spilling all the way to his shoulders. "Sir, take this," he said to Olivier and patted her shoulder to capture her attention.

She blinked. "Why should I?"

Miles sheepishly pulled his loose hair back. "You can't properly read if your fringe is going to fall into your eyes every time you look down. I don't have another tie, I'm sorry, but you can have mine."

Olivier looked at him and clenched her jaw. He was watching her shyly, like he was giving away his heart, not just some hair tie, and he was afraid that she might reject it.

Sighing, she took the white elastic. She gathered all of her hair and tied it at the back of her head in a messy, heavy bun, the curly ends of her locks sticking in every direction.

Her fingertips ran absently over her bare forehead. "Thank you," she said and he acknowledged her with a nod of his head.

Just when he was about to change the row, Olivier put her legs on the table and moved the carriage with the outer part of her boot. He continued to press the keyboard and every time the carriage completed its course to the end of a row, she pushed it back to the beginning with her right foot.

Hour after hour passed similarly, Buccaneer bringing in new reports and Armstrong correcting whatever mistakes were on them to ease her assistant's duty of typing them down. The flower pot that separated them had slowly filled with the burnt buds of cigarettes, Miles lighting them compulsively, one after the other.

Olivier chanced a brief look at him, mesmerized by his focus on the letters that were being imprinted on the paper. He was blind to anything that was around him, solely seeing how row after row was being completed with black words.

He changed the paper mechanically, not looking at the sheets he was rolling on the carriage. Olivier had to admit, he was very intent on his work. She was close to feeling amused when he was still trying to fish for blank sheets when there was none left, only if that hadn't been a bit sad.

Miles finally turned his gaze away from the typewriter's carriage, having to look at the empty paper tray. He made to get up and take another paper top, but his knees started wobbling painfully when he bent forward.

He swallowed dryly, his tongue stinging from the unusual amount he had smoked unconsciously. It was a bad habit that he had picked up in order to concentrate on only one task. He put more effort in his endeavour to sit up and, as soon as he was on his feet, he started stretching. His bones groaned from the lack of movement.

Crooking his head from one side to the other, he walked to the supply cabinet to get more paper.

Behind him, Olivier watched him critically. Her joints felt stiff and she had moved during the previous hours, unlike her assistant, who hadn't even lifted his head up. "Miles, take a break," she said, her voice hoarse.

He turned around. "I should finish the file first," he argued, but she shook her head.

"No. Go, walk around for a bit. I expect you here in twenty minutes."

Miles nodded and took his coat from the hamper. "I'll go hunt us some more coffee," he said and left the office.

XXXXX

After what had felt like an eternity, Miles typed down the last word of their activity reports. He freed the sheet from the old typewriter and handed it most ceremoniously to his commander. Armstrong took it and straightened the paper, then curved her signature at the end.

She put the final page on the tall pile of finished reports, groaning as she moved. "Damn, this feels good."

"I can't believe it. We actually finished," Miles remarked with tired enthusiasm, his voice coarse and throat aching. He leaned back on the couch and his entire body slid down the leather cushions. The gliding stopped when his knees knocked into the coffee table, but he was too exhausted to shift into a proper position.

In spite of his not even nearly functional state, he did realise he was not supposed to slack like that in front of his commander. Though, before he managed to move a muscle, Armstrong trailed down next to him and dropped her legs back on the table like she'd stood almost the entire day.

"That, we did," she said. "And it's only quarter to five. In the morning, but whatever. Still nailed it, eh?"

Miles shifted his tired eyes to what he could make out of the outer world through the window. "Hey, Major General," he said with a nudge, "we even got to see the sunrise."

She let out an undignified noise.

He turned his head to her. "I mean it, Sir! How long has it been since you've taken a moment to just look outside the window, with no thoughts on your mind? I say the sky is the most beautiful when it's like now, not exactly lit, but not too dark. Just... just foggy."

"That's because you've smoked your way through everyone's stashes, not because there's any actual fog," she made unimpressed. "But it's been a while, I guess."

"Mhm."

Olivier took a cigarette and offered another to Miles. He looked down at her hand with a question clearly forming on his lips. She shook her head. "You've had a hundred up until now and you won't take the hundred and first. Really."

"Fair point," he said and took the white stick.

Neither of them lit the cigarettes. They simply stood still and looked at what was visible of the sky from their vantage point. Too tired to hold his head properly, Miles' neck tilted a bit to the side.

He looked down at their feet, hers on the table and his, sinking under it. Sometime during the previous day, they had sheathed their uniform coats and had remained clad only in their issued black tops. By his side, Armstrong's chest was rising and falling peacefully, and for some reason, he felt like he was seeing her for the first time. In a way, he wasn't sure he ought to look at her at all.

It was strange how only one piece of fabric could change everything. It wasn't because he was able to see the extent of her most generous forms, which didn't make too much of a difference to him – Miles was very aware that she was a woman, despite the popular belief - but due to what the lack of that blue coat meant. He had never seen her wearing anything besides the uniform, and seeing her not wearing it gave the moment something that resembled intimacy.

That realisation made him feel a little uneasy and he absently played with a loose corner in the cigarette's foil, to chase his thoughts away. He shifted his gaze, afraid she might notice him staring. He didn't want to seem inappropriate to her, though he was already feeling himself being watched. His eyes shot up again.

Olivier was indeed looking at him with unfamiliarity in her eyes. Both of her electric blue orbs were visible and they were rimmed with red from lack of sleep. Her skin appeared slightly waxy and, for a moment, he wondered if he looked just as drained as her.

One of his locks decided to unglue itself from the rest of the swept back white mane that framed his face and it fell on his bare forehead, making the two officers blink at the same time.

Their heads turned away and they resumed staring through the window.

That was how Buccaneer had found them, about an hour later. Behind him, Karley was coughing and battling the air with both hands. He rushed to the window and opened it widely. "Gods almighty, did you light a fire in here?"

Miles was grinning sheepishly from the couch, in the exact same position he had adopted since they've finished the last report. He blew out some smoke and looked at the two officers.

Buccaneer whistled impressed, watching his friend smoking so sensually in his reclined position. "Someone looks like he's just gotten laid."

"If that 'getting laid' continues with 'to rest', I take it," Miles said with a smile.

Olivier snorted humourlessly. "Ha," she echoed without any inflexion and raised her empty mug. "Cheers to that."

"Sir, I'll go with Buccaneer to North City and deliver the paperwork," Karley commented. "But we should leave in a few hours, so tell us what we can do to help you."

"Ha!" Armstrong burst, that time with aplomb. "Help us, he says?"

"That, he does," Miles chirped by her side.

"Ha!"

Karley shot Buccaneer a puzzled glance. The big officer was equally quizzical, and the two of them stared back at their superiors, who appeared to be laughing at some unknown joke.

"Finished them about an hour ago," the Major General said, ending their sufferance.

Buccaneer gasped. "All of them?"

"All of them."

He smoothed his whiskers. "Yeah, okay," he blabbed, not quite believing it.

"We're just staying up to call the fuckers in Central and tell them to send someone to pick up the papers from North Headquarters," Olivier said with uncharacteristic glee. "When the clock hits seven, I'll phone the Human Resources."

"Eight, Sir," Miles whispered. "Work starts at eight. And I think that the departments start at nine."

She clicked her tongue on the back of her teeth. "Tch, there better be someone in the office at seven o'clock sharp, because I'm not staying any longer than that. Actually," she said and looked at the wall clock, "I'll call the Head of the Human Resources right now. Karley, find his home number and call that son of a bitch."

"Are we supposed to do that, Sir?" the communication officer asked and his commander gave him an amused look.

"Almost the entire Central Command thinks I'm off my bonkers and they're all afraid that I might bite them if they look juicy enough," she explained joyfully, "what would a phone call do to my reputation?"

"Fair point," Karley muttered under his breath, but it appeared that Olivier had heard him. She was frowning. Karley nodded hastily and went out to connect the office phone to an outer line. Buccaneer started sorting the papers for delivery.

Armstrong stood up slowly, feeling her legs like they were covered in lead. She put the heel of her palms on her hips and looked with disdain at the coffee table. "Right..." She turned to face Miles. "I'll go yell at that slime for a bit, then I'll go rest. You should do that, too, and take a shower," she told him.

"You should take one, too," he said, unthinking. He wanted to slap his mouth for saying that, but thankfully Armstrong chuckled.

"I've been thinking about the damned shower since around midnight, you can bet I'm taking one."

He smiled gently and rose to his feet. Buccaneer watched him with the corner of his eye, but he didn't make any comments.

Olivier extended her hand to the door handle, but she first tilted her head to look at her assistant. "Take the day off, you look like shit," she said as a salute, then left the room.

Miles burst into laughter, a tad too explosive. He always found everything awfully amusing when he was tired, even though most things weren't even funny to begin with.

"Mate, you do look like shit," Buccaneer offered. "Your irises are starting to migrate, you should see your eyes."

"Really?" he asked and looked at his reflection in a teaspoon. His eyes were so bloodshot, he might as well have been sniffing on drugs than merely typing up reports. "Yeah, I should probably go to sleep," he said and blinked, his orbs burning when the eyelids closed over them. "But, you know what's funny?"

"Hm?"

"She looked just as bad," the Captain said and patted his friend on the shoulder. "I would love to stay and help you, but these papers had completely fried me. Goodnight, Buc, or good morning. Whatever it is," he said and jokingly kissed his friend's cheek. Buccaneer chuckled and ruffled his hair. "G'night, mate!"

Miles smiled appreciatively and started the long way to his mercifully horizontal bed.

It sucked so horrifyingly bad to sit on your arse for almost an entire day. All Miles could think of was how nice a pillow was going to feel under his head.

That was a nice thought.

He should sleep on that.

XXXXX

Olivier woke up that evening with one the most mind-blowing headaches that she had experienced in ages, one that surpassed even the one she had thought impossible during the previous month. She should have probably closed her eyes back and sleep some more, but instead, she got up and headed to the bathroom. She took a quick shower which improved her mood – or at least, it lifted it up a stair - and dressed in some nondescript black blouse and riding pants. Her civilian wardrobe consisted in an impressive collection of clothes that were either monochrome or had absolutely terse patterns, and way too many riding pants for someone who did not have the time to mount a horse, not to mention ride it.

On a side note, she owned dresses, alright, and they all had been carefully picked out by her sisters or their mother, but she would not throw one on herself unless she had to sneak out somewhere and she didn't want to be recognised. Absolutely no one identified her if she wore a dress and high-heels, not even herself, so that was the perfect cover.

It was a bit sad that, even though she looked very much like a woman – maybe more than many other females - no one really believed she was one. She sometimes wondered, somewhere on the farthest back of the farthest backs of her mind, how it would have been if she had acted a bit more like her gender, if, why not, she had found herself some nice man to start a family with and do a work that would not get her shot from time to time.

She quickly erased that thought. Her parents would be the happiest in the world if she did any of that, but that was no life for her.

Vigorously, as not to think of other silly 'what-if's', Olivier draped her usual dark blue house robe over her shoulders and left her room. Walking, she ran her fingers thorough her hair, smoothing it where it has decided to curl without permission.

The plague of questions didn't elude her and she thought how she would have managed to do all that work without Miles. Probably, she wouldn't have. She had never understood why they had to type down activity reports and annotations when they could have just sent a brief notice about what they were doing, written by hand, which they were already sending throughout the year. Military had too much unnecessary paperwork, it was a wonder how it was still sustainable.

She usually skimmed her way through it, cutting much of what papers she had to send to Central, but last time, she had been announced that she needed to be more transparent with the fort's doings. She didn't get any more transparent, evidently, she merely wrote longer essays with more bullshit in them.

What she put her men do was her business. Yes, she was a state official and she was supposed to report back to the state, but she did her own development on the side. She couldn't trust the military as much as the military wanted to be trusted, because at any given time, someone could intercept her messages. She had the best radio-communication team which she would have vouched her lungs on – because they were just that good - but what she didn't trust were the lines. Those were unreliable.

Jumping from an idea to the next, Olivier turned around another corner in the maze of corridors. At first, she had wanted to go to the rooftops and get a whiff of the cool evening air, but she had changed her destination on the go. She remembered how red her assistant's eyes had looked, like a cherry so ripe that it was about to burst, and that it had nothing to do with the colour of his irises.

More than she liked admitting, she found herself a little intrigued by the crimson in his eyes, so deep and vibrant. He possessed quite an appealing pair, sparkling with wit and intelligence between their elongated slits. She wasn't one to show her eyes, too bright and blue to hide any expression, but she enjoyed looking into the others'. Eyes could speak volumes about a person and they were so honest. Even when one lied, they remained true to the heart.

And his were so full of unspeakable wonders.

Having that in mind, she knocked on the doctor's office door, hoping she might find her. Thankfully, with a surprised smile, but a smile nonetheless, the Doc opened.

"Oh, Major General, fancy having you here! Come in!"

"Thanks, Rowalda," Armstrong said and entered the hospital wing.

The doctor frowned as she closed the door. "General, you know how much I love taking shrapnel out of you, you're my favourite patient and all, but don't call me that thing! It's like calling you on your second name, it just doesn't work."

"True," Olivier agreed. Her second name, Mira, didn't go well with her, nor did the doctor's given name. The Doc had once told her that her name just didn't match her, that it sounded too much like one that belonged to a character in a fairy tale, and Olivier couldn't relate more to the other woman's distress.

She wondered what their parents had been thinking when they had named them. She, for one, suspected that hers thought she was going to be a boy and named her like one, but they had thrown in a feminine name just because.

"So, what can I do for you, Sir? I suppose you didn't come up for a chat, because if you did, I'll advise you to go back to sleep. You look tired," the doctor said.

"I do feel tired, but that's beside the point," Armstrong made. She rarely admitted to being drained of energy, but after what the poor doctor had to see coming out of her – the litany of things that had impaled themselves in her body when she had had certain disagreement with their friendly neighbouring state and things had gone astray - she didn't think she needed to hide herself behind the drapes of her hair. "Do you still have those eye drops?"

"As a matter of fact, I do," the Doc said. "Do you need them? Do your eyes hurt again? I've told you, sleep isn't the enemy, Sir."

Armstrong's eyes narrowed into two thin lines, guarded by long pale eyelashes. "I'll pretend I didn't hear that, Rowalda," she said menacingly and the Doc grimaced, "but no, I want them for Captain Miles. His eyes were rather red this morning and I don't think he'll be able to see tomorrow. There's still a fort to run, after all this blasted wave of paperwork."

"I hope red as in bloodshot, because he always has red eyes," the doctor jested, but the commander didn't laugh. Seeing she wasn't going to get any smiles from the head of the 'establishment', as she liked to call the fort, the other female resident procured the said eye drops without further questions. "Buccaneer said you two had finished everything sometime in the early morning."

"Mhm, he'd told you right."

The Doc nodded impressed. "Try not to kill the Captain, Sir, he's doing good work in here and we all like him. By the way, take this too," she said and gave her a small tin box. "It's an unguent, he must have blisters from all that typing. I was going to give it to him tomo-"

"There's no need, I'll leave it in the office."

The doctor blinked, a bit confused. "Alright, Sir. So, if there's no problem, do you mind if we take this on the hallway? I have this phenomenal novel waiting for me and-"

"-and it'd be a shame to waste your time on me, yes," Olivier said smoothly and smirked. "Not at all, I was planning on finishing what's left of my book, too."

"I think resting would be a better option, but suit yourself. Sorry, General, but I'll see you tomorrow."

"Mhm," Armstrong waved vaguely and left the doctor to close the door.

As she walked, a queer shiver twisted inside her, but she decked it as nothing. She put the little bottle and the tin box in her pockets and shoved her hands in along with them.

Her steps didn't take her as close to the office as she had initially planned, but it seemed that her feet were adamant on doing what they wanted. That way, she found herself face to face with a door which looked just like any other door, but didn't feel like the rest.

Olivier took a deep breath, wondering where all that anxiety was coming from, and knocked.

It took a few good moments before the door opened most abruptly, showing a slightly disturbed Miles clutching the doorknob as if he were about to drop from his feet. He hastily let go of it to tie the loose ends of the bath robe he wore over his clothes, which weren't that many at all. He looked startled and it took his some instants to regain his best dead-pan expression. "Sir-"

"I hope I haven't woken you up, Captain," Armstrong stated clearly over his voice. He shook his head in negation, even though he didn't look very awake. "Good, I came to give you this."

Miles looked down at her hand, unsure of what was going on, and took the bottle. "Thank you, Sir... Uh..., please, come in!"

"There's no need-"

"Nonsense, Sir, you've brought me-" he stopped and read the small label on the bottle, "-eye drops! I wanted to nag the Doc for some tomorrow morning, thank you so much!" he said excitedly and disappeared behind the door.

Armstrong crooked her neck to see inside the room. She made up her mind and entered.

It was the first time when she saw the interior of a subordinate's room without any serious reason. It was identical to her room, only that it was drastically better organised and without any papers lying lifelessly on the floor.

"Excuse me for my lack of manners, General," Miles said, staring at his reflection in a golden framed mirror that reclined on one of the walls, "but I cannot possibly express just how badly my eyes sting."

"No problem, it's understandable," Olivier retorted awkwardly, eyes wandering from a spot to another. She tried hard not to look at her subordinate and instead, she focused on the floor. He shuffled in front of the mirror and she caught a glimpse of his long, muscular legs - very much bare legs – erecting like two misplaced broomsticks from under the scarlet bath robe he wore. The dark skin was marred with white criss-crossed scars that went up to his knees and probably further up. How far, it was hard to say.

In a distant thought, she wondered how he had gotten them.

Making good use of the reflective proprieties of the looking glass, Miles watched how his commander's eyes darted from the floor to him, then to the wall and back to him. His eyes stung, but that did not render him blind like she appeared to believe. He could still see very well.

He took his time in pouring the drops because he was actually enjoying the bit of attention he was getting. She was thinking herself to be subtle, he was sure of that - she didn't even realise she was not hiding her stares at all.

When it couldn't have possibly been considered polite any longer, he turned away from the mirror. "May I offer you something to drink, Sir? I have no coffee or liquor, but I have an interminable reserve of mint tea, if you'd like."

"No, thank you-"

"Are you sure, Sir?" he asked, tempting fate again. "I've already made some for myself, but I never get the water quantity right and there's definitely too much for one cup."

"If that's so...," Armstrong trailed on.

Miles perked up and snatched a blue ribbon from a desk that was practically shoved into the wall. He tied his hair in a neat bun and grabbed two upturned mugs from a table.

"I am sorry for the mess, but I was actually trying to figure out how to put things in here," he explained as he poured the greenish murk-coloured liquid. "I am thinking of making this look livelier, I hope there's no problem. And please, take a seat!"

Olivier looked around and found a chair right by the desk. "As long as you don't paint the walls, I wouldn't think so," she said. "Do you have any ideas?"

"I was thinking of getting an armchair, whatever I can find around here," he told and filled the first cup. "Literally anything, it can be lumpy or have moths, because I really miss reading in one and it just doesn't do to read in bed for me. I was thinking of a foot lamp, too, but it will take a while to find one that fits this space. Honestly, it feels like in a hospital room in here, if you ask me."

"You are into some major decorations, I see," she remarked and directed her finger to the cup that he had put in front of her. "Split it equally, there's not the same amount left in the kettle."

"It's more than sufficient-"

"No, it's not," she said and took the kettle. She poured what was left of the tea into Miles' mug, which filled only halfway. "See? It is a matter of sharing evenly, even if you are the one who is offering," she explained and added some of her tea over her assistant's, so they would have the same amount.

"I say! That is impressive," Miles pointed with clear admiration to the perfect similarity between their cups. "You could have been a bartender, Sir, you have the eye for pouring drinks."

She smirked and sniffed her tea. She finally understood why her assistant always smelt of mint. Not that it was such a terrible thing. He smelt fresh, at least, very different from whatever odours other soldiers left behind them after a long day of work. "I'd say you could have been a secretary, if it's to talk about missed vocations."

Miles blew the steam over his tea and smiled. "You have no idea how much my mother would have hoped that to be true." He looked down, making his hair stand out.

For some reason, it was only then that Olivier realised that she still hadn't returned his hair tie back to him. The blue ribbon sparkled around his white locks, almost like a clearing in the ocean amidst a terrible storm of foam.

Thoughts too poetical for her, she looked to her side in pretence of drinking from the tea and noticed a few wooden frames and some coloured cloth. She could've asked about them, but she supposed he would tell her on his own volition, since he was so talkative out of the sudden. "And why's that?" she asked, regaining eye contact.

"You see, both my parents are academicians and evidently, they hadn't imagine me doing anything that didn't follow the lines. They are not cut for the military, that's the thing, and they didn't think I would be, either. My father is a real gentleman, the kind who gets up when someone leaves the table and so on, and my mother is this short thing who worries about everything and suffocates you with just how much she worries to the point you start worrying for things that just don't matter," he said in a single breath, his eyes burning vividly. "I think she is partly the reason why I have joined the army, she was exasperating me."

"And that's why you've joined the army? That's stupid."

"It was bad judgement, mostly, but I think that had added a heavy weight to the mix." He drank from his tea, preventing himself from saying something that would undermine his professionalism. He had always prided himself for his cerebral thinking in the most sensitive situations, but when it came to making decisions that concerned him solely, his head went ahead first and then remembered that the body followed right after.

He supposed that his decision at the time when he had dropped out from the theoretical system had also been influenced by the vast amounts of women in his family, who all had had ideas about how he should live his life. He had hidden as much as he could from the harpies, but by the ripe age of ten, shelters had become so sparse and he too tall that he had had to eventually suffer through long, strenuous family reunions that had left him contemplating extreme solutions.

"Leaving that aside, sitting in front of a desk for the entire day just didn't seem to be my thing."

"Now, really. I wouldn't have guessed," Olivier commented sarcastically. They had done exactly that – stood in front of a table, admittedly not a desk, for the entire span of a day.

"Perhaps I've made the bad choice, after all," he said and shrugged. "What would you have done, Sir, if you hadn't joined the army?"

She took a moment to think of it. What would she have done? That was a fair question. She had never considered another option. "I... don't know. The army is all I've known since I was a child... my father was in the military, like almost the entire family, so I grew up seeing guns and people rushing in and out of the house in full uniform." The corners of her lips tugged up with a longing smile. She let out a shaky breath that could have been a chuckle. "When I had had enough of my safe civilian life, I'd lied about my age and joined the academy. It was a bit earlier than legal."

"Really?"

"Mhm. My father had to deal with the mess, forged papers and all, but luckily, he was well-planted in the justice department. I mean, he was the head of the Central division. Though he still had to give a lot of explanations when he eventually found out that I was going to the Academy instead of the boarding school that I had been pestering them about."

Miles' eyebrows shot up. "Eventually?"

"Mhm, I've notified my parents through a letter. Sometime during the second year," she muttered in her tea.

"That is some determination, Sir," he made impressed. "I wish I had been so excited in my original schooling."

"Which had been...?" she asked with curiosity.

"You won't believe it if I said it, but just for the record, I started university a bit earlier because I've scored the highest grades on some examinations I was actually taking for someone else - which is irrelevant - but I dropped out at the end of the first year. I was at the top of the class, I really don't know what I was thinking."

"Aha," she said uninterested. "You still didn't say the specialisation."

"You won't believe me, I have told you."

She made an unnerved sound.

"Advanced Mathematics and Physics," he said, smiling.

Olivier pulled a face at him, like he was going to transform into some unmentionable beast right in front of her. After a far-stretched dramatic moment, her expression fell. "Yeah, right, and pigs fly. You don't look like a scientist."

"Nor a soldier, some might say, but anyway – what's in the past is in the past. I only wish I hadn't made my family so upset over my choices. Though I don't think I could have taken another moment of anyone's nagging, good grief. I can take orders, those are final, but listening to incessant blubbering and having to smile through it... that's too much for me."

"For someone who doesn't enjoy nagging, you sure complain a lot."

"I like hearing myself talk, I think," he said. "Uh... I hope I'm not bothering you, Sir."

Olivier didn't move a muscle because she had just realised something. She was flabbergasted by how she hadn't noticed that he was rambling. She hadn't even snapped at him, as she would have normally done by then. Instead, she had listened to every word he had said and her mouth had even dared to clench into the tiniest shade of a smile.

Miles shifted in his chair, obviously uncomfortable with the path their little chat had taken when he'd said that. Or the lack of it, actually. He was constantly entering unsecured territory with his commanding officer, he was not sure how much longer she would allow him to run his mouth.

Thankfully, Armstrong broke the silence in her best, impassionate voice. "Does your family know what you think about them?" she asked. She didn't think she would have liked that question to be addressed to her, but at the moment, she needn't worry.

"They've gotten the idea years ago, yes," Miles retorted without skipping a beat, "but I'd say they are pleased with that. At least, my parents are."

Olivier tilted her head, motioning for him to continue.

"My mother has a saying, 'A parent knows that they've done the right thing with their child if said child complains about them at least once in a while. Starting with when they are teenagers, if the brat doesn't portray you like the sheer devil when asked, you've just missed something.'"

Miles grinned, remembering the long talks he had had with his mother, watching the sunset under the tallest tree in the garden, while his father was reading the other day's newspaper. He could be saying whatever he wanted about his parents, that they were driving him insane even in adulthood – their speciality - but both his mother and father knew it was only surface banter. They couldn't be insufferable to each other forever.

Lost in his pretty bubble, he didn't notice the colour drain from Armstrong's face. If what his mother said was true, then, considering the amount of bad-mouthing her family constantly got from the eldest daughter in the set, they had done a miraculous job with her.

She loved her family, with all that was good and bad, but she loathed reminding herself of that. That feeling, of certain strings attached to other human beings, was good where it laid, forgotten somewhere in her mind. When it resurfaced, she didn't like the taste it left in her mouth.

"What do you think of that, Sir?" Miles asked her, shaking her out from her thoughts.

"I suppose your mother is right," she said absently. "She has interesting sayings. Do you follow any of them? Besides this one."

"As little as it's humanly possible," he countered, smiling. "Well, actually, more than I should, since most of them are based on whatever I did, but that's beside the point."

"Hm," she made, unarticulated, and rose from the seat. She downed the rest of the tea from her cup and motioned for the door. "I shall leave you to rest, Miles. I expect full functionality from you tomorrow," Armstrong spoke mechanically.

"Of course, Major General," Miles replied kindly and lifted up in time with her. He walked her to the door and opened it for her. "Thank you again for the drops, Sir," he said and she waved him off, leaving him behind.

Miles leaned against the doorframe to watch the retreating form of his commander. Her feet landed precisely on the floor and a bit too hard, like she was beating it into subordination with each step she took. He smiled and shook his head, wondering what exactly had transpired between during that short visit.

The Major General was still a very strange person, but she was starting to feel familiar to him. Like he was starting to crack her up a bit.

He hoped that not too much, because he was afraid of what he might find if all her walls collapsed, but they were getting somewhere where their interaction could be considered civilised.

Maybe, even friendly.

XXXXX

When Olivier entered her room, she kicked the door, hard. It closed behind her with a resounding sound, the drapes over the windows flapping before smacking into the glass.

She walked to the bed and plopped on the mattress, the springs wailing under her weight. "Tch," she smacked her lips together and looked up at the ceiling.

She shoved her hands into her pockets, and her knuckles hit something hard at the bottom of the left one. She grabbed the object and turned it around, reading its colourful label. "'The Miracle Balm, The One for You When Your Skin Goes Wham'," she read monotonously.

Her eyes widened in recognition and she sighed, feeling something in her cry in defeat.

She wasn't one to ever forget to do things, but she had forgotten to give Miles the blisters cream.

She suspired again and let the little box drop to her side. It rolled on the mattress and it stopped with a clang, clashing into the pommel of the knife she usually kept under her pillow. She took it and unsheathed the blade.

She could see herself in reflection, and she didn't like what she was seeing.

On an afterthought, Olivier grabbed the handle and threw the knife right into the bathroom's door.

* * *

A/N: Ta-da! That's it for now, I hope you've enjoyed this and thank you very much for reading! If you'd like, please leave me some feedback, follow and favourite! I'm very thankful for them!

Until the next time, bye bye!


	5. 5 - Little Things

A/N: 'Morning! Here's another chapter, a much shorter chapter that it's more of a filler than anything, because it needs to make the bridge to what is coming next. Please bear with me a little longer, and thank you very much for reading!

As usual, I own nothing that doesn't have to do with the bit of plot and the original characters.

That being said, no further intros needed...

* * *

Chapter 5 – Little Things

"Miles, Miles, Miles!" Buccaneer blurted excitedly behind him, jumping from a foot to the other at every mention of his name. "Do you know what's in two days?"

Miles clenched his fists on the papers he was holding and turned to glare at the Lieutenant. "Yes, and if I hear you speaking one more time, I swear you won't get to see what's in two days," he threatened and resumed his hurried pace.

"You, my friend, are no fun," Buccaneer said unfazed. "You are starting to sound like our fair queen."

"Buccaneer, shut up!" Miles growled and started walking faster. Much taller than him, the Lieutenant fell right back in step with him.

"Still, I've got a point."

Miles stopped his stride and Buccaneer almost tumbled over him. "You listen to me, Lieutenant Buccaneer, and you listen well – shut the hell up and help me finish what I am supposed to do, so we can fucking do what we are supposed to do in two days, because if I am not finished with my work, then nor are you," he said in one go.

Buccaneer lifted his arms up in defeat. "Right back at you, boss!"

Miles rolled his eyes and resumed walking.

He understood his friend's over-excitement, and as much as he was thankful for what was about to come, he couldn't help getting unnerved by how he was reminded every single second of the day that they were finally getting a permission.

They had dubbed it as 'what was about to happen' – actually, Buccaneer had - only because it sounded so exquisite to get a few days off from a place where you worked even in your sleep and they didn't want the charm to wear off.

After the stunt Miles had pulled to help the Major General finish the activity reports, paperwork at the fort had started to get a little slow. Therefore, he had been granted a three-days permission to East City. He wanted to see a bit of his parents, whom he hadn't seen in a few months, and planned on resting as much as he could. Perhaps visit the new art gallery he had read about in the newspaper, but mainly to rest.

Buccaneer asked, a bit shyly, if there was any chance to accompany him, since he was planning on inquiring for a few days off as well. He said that he hadn't taken any breaks for almost two years, and that was about as much time as he had spent in Briggs. Surprisingly, Armstrong approved of their request and that was how they'd both landed themselves a sound leave.

And sound it was, because Buccaneer couldn't possibly shut up about how they were going away.

"You know, Captain," the tall man said pensively, "we should stop talking about this leave as if it's some big happening, it sounds strange."

Miles's hands shot up in the air. "Pff, how come?"

"I don't know, I'm just saying."

"Shut up, Buccaneer."

"Yeah, yeah," he said and buried his fists in his pockets. "By the way, you know who could do with a vacation? The General."

"Ha!" Miles made humourlessly, "what gives?"

"Why, she seems to be on springs, more than usual. Haven't you noticed that?"

That woman seemed to always be on springs, snapping at everyone and demanding for murder with her eyes, but Miles decided to humour his friend and nod. "I have, but why are you telling me this?"

Buccaneer grunted. "You're the only one who could tell her something like that."

"Tell her what? That she needs a vacation?" the quarter Ishbalan said with surprise. "Me? Why me?"

"She seems to hear what you're saying, in that 'I'm not listening to you' way of hers," he said.

"That's not true," Miles retorted with finality and entered the office. Armstrong, who was ripping pages out of a glossary, exclaimed at his sight. "Finally! What's that thing about the ammunition shipping that I'm hearing about? Figure it out, now," she ordered him as she tore another paper.

Miles nodded curtly and turned on his heels to leave the office, but not before he glared one more time at Buccaneer, who was grinning like an idiot.

XXXXX

Miles put his cheek on the window, the sun caressing his skin through the glass. He watched the scenery change, from the snowy mountains to the brown hills, and then to the green plains, until they were all painted in yellow and red.

The grain fields were peppered with scarlet poppies, all bending in the light wind of the morning. From his seat on the train, he gazed at the extensive lands of Amestris, so different from one region to the other.

In front of him, Buccaneer was doing his own kind of sight-seeing, only that it was being done in his dreams. He was sleeping with his mouth widely opened, the roaring of his snoring being Miles' only companion for the road. The moment the train's chimney had started fuming, the bear of a man had began snoozing.

Miles opened his book where he had left it and read until they reached East City. He kicked Buccaneer in the shin and he woke up with bleary eyes, like he hadn't slept at all, and they descended from the train.

The station was full of people of all colours and in every possible stage of hurry. Some were running to catch the train and others were running to hug their visiting friends, while others were just passing by without much of a fuss. The two officers made their way to the exit, both clad in civilian clothes, Miles' gaudy shirt as perfectly eye-cringing as he could find in his closet.

At his side, Buccaneer wore much terser clothes, ones that didn't stand in the crowd like his friend's. He looked decent in his simple attire. On the other hand, Miles' shirt was forest green and displayed a wide variety of birds and parrots flying around pink flowers in a cacophony that wouldn't have worked on anyone but him. With his hair loose, brushing over his shoulders and his arched sideburns, he looked right at home, having that on him. The hems of his opened shirt flapped around his black top as he walked.

"Okay," he said and turned with much aplomb to Buccaneer. "Let's go find where we are going to stay."

Buccaneer grinned and followed his superior, whose hair reflected the sun right into his eyes.

During the first two days of their shared permission, the two officers occupied their time with strolling through the city from one side to the other. Buccaneer, eager to roam around without any purpose besides being able to do it, followed Miles, who dragged him through every gallery he could find. Their vacation coincided with the end of the final semester of the art university, and various students and aspiring artists presented their works in a festival.

On the third day, which was also their last one, they found themselves again onboard a train, only for a far shorter period of time.

They were visiting Miles' parents who, because their students were on vacation for the summer, took the liberty to retreat to their house in the deep Eastern country. The ride didn't last long and they were soon facing a little, quaint cottage with a neat flower bed in the front yard.

Buccaneer took in the colourful sight of the propriety and instantly understood from where his friend was getting his love for anything that was bright and eye-watering.

The front door opened and a short woman appeared. Her skin was tanned and her hair was deep chestnut. She was the kind who would have been blown away by a more powerful wind, but in his experience, those were the ones who possessed a voice that could be heard from miles away. Precautiously, Buccaneer made a step back.

The woman jumped to hug her son, who had to bend to catch his mother. "Ah, my boy," she said with mirth and hooked her arms around his neck. "So good to see you are good and alive, not that you've tried to let us know that you are!"

"Good to see you too, Mum," Miles said, ignoring his mother's comment. She glared at him and put her hands on her narrow hips.

The woman looked up and bent the neck, the back of her head touching her shoulders, exaggerating with the Lieutenant's height. "But who is this fine lad you've got with you! My, my, aren't you tall," she said to Buccaneer and smiled a smile that looked identical to her son's.

She blinked with bright green eyes at him, expecting some reaction. Buccaneer, who otherwise had had lots of experience with his sister's mood shifts and shouldn't have been this baffled, seemed not to be able to compose himself in front of the bubbly woman. He looked at her sheepishly.

Miles grinned at his friend. "This is Lieutenant Buccaneer, Mum. He is my help at the fort, and a very good friend besides that," he explained and the woman nodded with apprehension.

"Ah, so that's the pal you've told me about, huh?" she said. "Nice meeting you, Lieutenant!" She extended her hand to the officer, who shook it after a moment of ponder.

"Likewise, Misses Miles," Buccaneer said politely. "Please, call me Buccaneer, I'm not one for formalities."

"And you can call me Jasmine," the woman said with a Cheshire grin and an easy talk. "Not even my students call me Misses Miles, it's like calling my boy on his given name. Heavens forbid we say the name which we must not," she made solemnly and squeezed her son's shoulder fondly. She had to rise on her toes to reach him without looking like she wanted to climb into a tree.

"Where's Dad?" Miles asked, looking around. Jasmine pointed to the house. "He's trying to burn the house down, we should probably make sure he didn't ruin my curtains," she explained and beckoned them inside.

Buccaneer looked at the short woman, then to his friend, clearly questioning what was happening. "My father is trying his culinary skills," Miles explained.

"Oh," the other made. "Your mother doesn't have much faith in them."

"No one does, but that has never stopped him from trying. Come on, Buc," Miles said and ushered Buccaneer inside.

The smell of fresh bread and vanilla floated in the air. The large table in the kitchen, which was situated at the back of the house, was filled with all sorts of plates containing various mouth-watering roasts, fuming pies and deliciously looking roulades. In front of a counter, a tall man was assembling a very crooked cake that was slowly falling apart.

"Ah, the prodigal son has returned," the man said smiling and opened his arms. He hit a bowl and a spoon fell on the floor, but no one was surprised by the thud besides Buccaneer, who was watching everything with a big grain of salt.

"Ha, ha, Dad," Miles replied sarcastically and hugged his father, who was about the same height as him. They patted each other's backs as they tightened their embrace, like they hadn't seen each other in centuries.

The Lieutenant was staring at the mismatched family. Saying that Miles and his father didn't look alike was a big understatement - he had to strain his eyes really hard to find any similarities at all. The father had curly auburn hair and fair skin, and his eyes shone blue. But Buccaneer wasn't one to jump at conclusions. After a more critical look, he saw how they had the same strong jaw and pointy chin, even the same eye shape, and both pairs were looking back at him.

Miles whistled at him. "Um, Buc, are you alright?" he asked after he had captured his attention.

"Ah, sorry," Buccaneer made dumbly and fumbled with the end of his long braid. "I was... um, admiring the many treats you have, um... placed upon the table," he said awkwardly and scratched his head.

It was visible that Mister Miles was too much of a well-educated man to comment anything on that lame excuse of an explanation, because the corners of his mouth were trembling like he was aching to say something, yet he fought against it.

He too extended his hand, like his wife, and welcomed Buccaneer. "I've only made that thing," he said and pointed to the sorry-looking cake that seemed to be kept together by sheer will. "Jas did the rest."

"Ishbala be praised, we are eating then," Miles made expansively and took an olive from a bowl. "Mm, Mum, you still cook the best green olives," he said and kissed the top of his mother's head, who slapped him away. He rushed to the next room.

"Ungrateful brat," she stuttered behind him. "Please, Buccaneer, make yourself at home, you are welcomed here. But you will have to excuse that creature with the manners of a mongrel."

"I heard you!" Miles yelled from the living room.

"I don't care!" his mother shot right back and smiled sweetly at her son's subaltern, who returned her gesture with much unease.

XXXXX

They were strange people, Buccaneer thought, but as soon as he started eating the various goods laid in front of him, he adored his friend's parents. Especially Jasmine Miles. The food she made was absolutely divine and more than once he wanted to kiss Miles' mother for cooking such offerings to the gods.

And once they started talking, Buccaneer began to think that they were really decent people. Leopold, Miles' father, was an automail enthusiast just like him, and he was pleasantly surprised when Buccaneer told him a bit about his prosthetic's composition.

When asked about the matter of his hobby, his wife preferred to call him a 'fanatic' rather than merely 'enthusiastic', but Mister Miles wasn't deterred from filing their guest's head with everything that was new in the world of metallic things, once he got started.

Knowing her husband's repertoire by heart, Jasmine took her son with her to the kitchen on the pretence of cleaning things up and bringing the desert. He followed her reluctantly, bracing himself for the tall-tale nagging he was going to get from her.

The short woman sat on a chair and Miles leaned back on the countertop, facing her. She smiled at him and he relaxed a bit, not wanting to seem distressed by his own mother.

"How's life at the fort, honey? Are they treating you alright?" she asked and Miles had to hold down the instinct of patting himself on the shoulder. Let the nagging begin, he thought grimly.

"Yes, Mother, they are treating me like I'm made from glass. I'm everyone's superior, you know, so it's kind of a granted. Only the Major General surpasses my rank, and she is a thousand ranks higher than me."

"They can treat you badly even if you are their superior, honey," his mother said with concern.

Miles gritted his teeth. Leave mothers to worry whether the overgrown cub put a scarf around his neck when it was cold outside. "Evidently, but I get along with everyone just fine. It's a wonder what a bit of smiling can do in that place."

"I've heard that the General is a bit of a witch, but I didn't think it would be that bad."

That was a funny image, the one that his mother was painting in his head. Armstrong would look funny with a green face and riding a broom. She would probably kill him for that thought if she knew it, but that was beside the point. "It's not that bad, Mum. And I'm fairly certain she's not a witch, she's just very stern. She could melt ice when she glares, but in rest, she's fair. The General values hard work over anything."

"She sounds like a harsh woman."

"She wouldn't like hearing herself called a 'woman', actually," Miles said chuckling. "We call her 'Sir'. If you met her, you'd understand."

"Really? All the time?"

"No, we refer to her as the 'Ice Queen' when she's not around, even though she knows it. It just suits her, I guess, since the favourite penalty at the fort is cutting down icicles. It's funny when she threatens the other soldiers into doing that. Buccaneer could hold an entire lecture about it, he's frequently subjected to it."

Jasmine whistled impressed. "Is it that bad to cut down icicles?"

"Some are bigger than you."

She pinched her son's thigh. "You dare mock your mother? Good lessons they have been teaching you there," she admonished with barely concealed glee. "Did you ever have to cut icicles?"

"Ah, of course not," Miles said and looked at his fingernails. "That's why I have subordinates."

"My boy is smart," Jasmine approved proudly. "It's good that you enjoy your work there, but it wouldn't kill you to call us from time to time."

"I am very busy, Mum, you know I call you when I can."

"We worry about you, you know?"

"I wouldn't have guessed it if you hadn't told me," Miles said sarcastically. He drummed his fingers on the table. "Well, enough prying into my uninteresting work! How are you? How did your students finish this year?"

"The same as usual, half as idiots and the rest in denial, but it's been okay. It could have been worse."

"Can it be worse?" he jested as he poured himself a glass of water and gave his mother another. She took it with a nod.

"I don't know how to say it, honey, but there is something that feels aloof in here. You will probably say it's just me, always worrying about things, but there's something strange going on, you see? I know that stupid civil war has been going on for some years... but they have started to get a bit violent in the city, not only at the borders. I mean, there have been a lot of protests and the army has been acting rather harshly in easing them off. Like they actually wanted to hurt people, instead of cooling them off."

Miles' smile became wry. "Can you be a bit more specific?"

"The military is starting to mingle with things it had previously never cared about. No one had ever made too much of a fuss about streaks or people demanding their rights, things had always been solved out quickly with the authorities and everyone was happy, you know? But a few students of mine had gotten themselves beaten up for raising their voices in a demonstration of some random organisation for protecting parks or something. It had never happened before."

Miles tilted his head to the side. "No, that had never happened before, as far as I'm aware. Other things?"

"Over half of them were Ishbalans who hadn't opposed anyone before and their friends had also been taken up at punches and cranes. The thing is, those whom they hadn't talked to got absolutely nothing. They are as right as rain. Shocked, but unharmed."

"That's... odd," he agreed. "Do you think they are doing some kind of selection or have they done something in the past?"

"I am not sure, sugar, but it's the first time I'm seeing something like this. Do you think it's a thing to do with religion or, I don't know, race? I know there is not a lot of love between the Amestrians and the Ishbalans and they've been beating each other for years, but never in my life have I seen something so extreme! Ever since that child had been shot, I know things haven't been the same in Ishbal, like when I had been little, but they've never attacked anyone who didn't proclaim himself a rebel. And I hear it's been happening to people of all ages, not only to my students."

"I don't know, Mum," Miles said and leaned forward to put a hand over her shoulder, "but I want you to be careful. Don't say anywhere that Grandpa is Ishbalan, just pretend you don't know what they're talking about and leave, yes? And don't sign anything about faith or affiliations. Or any things like that. You believe in nothing and you don't know anyone, alright?"

"Alright, honey, but do you think-"

"I can't put a finger on anything, Mum, but it's never good when the army starts getting violent with peaceful civilians. This civil war in Ishbal, or what they want to call it, has been going on for too many years, far too many to assure an amnesty over the night. The thing is, Amestris is losing a lot of resources with it and I'm afraid that it could escalade in ways you don't want to imagine. I've seen the army getting riled up in all sorts of conflicts, I don't want any harm to come over you or Dad."

Jasmine looked down at her hands. "Farid, you know it is very hard for us to be thinking of you, putting yourself in such dangers because of your job," she said. "If there's anything to happen, anything real and not just my imagination, promise me, you will take care of yourself, honey. Please."

"Ah, don't worry for me, Mum," Miles assured her, but his smile didn't quite reach his eyes. "I am more of a clerk than anything. I'm... um, the paperwork boy, if you want. Nothing will harm me, don't fret too much, okay?" His mother didn't have to know about what he had done before he had been transferred to the fort. It was better not to remind himself, either, because he was still seeing red from all the blood he had swam in during his covert missions. He preferred typing up reports than smothering people on orders.

"Maybe, honey, but they won't care what you are if things get bad. Be careful, for me and Dad."

"I promise you, Mum, don't worry," he said and kissed his mother on the cheeks.

XXXXX

Olivier Armstrong spun on her assistant's chair - which was surprisingly comfortable, unlike hers - and it possessed the marvellous propriety of spinning around its centre. She rotated like in a merry-go-round, having fun with the way her hair swished around her and her head buzzed with dizziness.

From the moment she had first sat in Miles' chair, she knew that no chair would ever be the same for her. Hers was horribly stiff compared to his, but she wasn't going to change it just because of that. She would make it her purpose to 'borrow' it whenever her assistant wasn't in the office. It would be just between her and that nice, spinning chair.

She put a foot down to stop the chair from rotating and picked another batch of correspondence. Most of it consisted in uninteresting notices from various military departments, but she stopped scrolling and throwing away the letters when she found one from her brother.

Alex oftentimes wrote to her and, even if she sparsely replied to him - if at all - she always read his letters. She would have ripped the letters if someone stood in front of her, but she would still have found a way to collect the torn pieces and read what he had to say.

She cut the top of the envelope with a knife, not bothering to break the seal. She unfolded the paper and scanned through the letter's body, having to make an effort to understand what her brother wrote in his calligraphic script. It was beautiful to look at, but she was not too apt at deciphering it.

Somewhere in there, after she read about all the mundane things her family was up to, she found an interesting paragraph. Alex was telling her that the production of armament and ammunition in the Eastern area has dramatically increased. He had recently worked on a case where he'd overheard one of the witnesses, who owned a coal mine, talking to a relative from Central and telling that he was excited that the demand for iron and coal from the West was picking up, and that they were sending it massively to the East. After some research, he found out that it was being sent to a refinery where they were making weapons which normally used solely resources from the Eastern mines.

There wasn't any conflict that would demand for such an extraordinary amount of guns in the East, he said – up until now, all the items they had needed in the conflagration with the Ishbalans, they had procured from local sources – and that something else happened at that refinery.

There had been an incident that caused the death of seven men, two of whom had been Ishbalans. All the families of the victims had received the usual compensation for their loses, only the Ishbalans' hadn't. Up until then, any Ishbalan family, despite the war in the East, had been compensated after such accidents. They hadn't even informed the families, even if the casualties had been one of the best workers they'd had there.

After relaying a few more other incidents that had followed the same footsteps, Alex expressed his fear of a degeneration of the conflict in Ishbal. Things had been heated up for many years in the East, after the incident when a soldier had accidentally killed an Ishbalan child.

In retaliation, Ishbalans had tried to avenge the murder and the Amestrian military had, obviously, riposted. The resistance of the red eyed rebels was being fuelled by external sources, such as ammunition and weapons from Aerugo. It had become almost natural for the Ishbalans and the Amestrians to fight each other senselessly, but there had never been any impartial parties included, such as Ishbalans who hadn't taken sides, and simply worked for the state. That was a first, from what he knew.

Alex hoped he was wrong about his observation, but he advised his sister to be really careful, since the spirits in Central were heating up in ways they'd never had. The soldiers were having more training sessions during the week and he had heard a rumour about some transfers to the East. Their contacts at the Eastern Headquarters were also talking about some uprising there, and he had a hunch that things were about to escalade, since they began targeting the population that had declared itself neutral.

She roamed her eyes through the rest of the letter, then picked up another which she had discarded on the pile of uninteresting things she would've read later. It was from the Personnel Office in Central, notifying her that she would be getting an inspection, a thing she had gotten only once before, when she had just been named commander of Briggs. After that, no Personnel Inspector had dared to set foot in her fort. She read the words carefully, trying to find the catch in the impersonal wording, but she didn't find anything.

Perhaps they wanted to mock her for her need of an assistant, which was the likeliest reason. She had always denied help and then, out of the sudden, she was demanding for a second pair of hands to assist in the administrative work. They were definitely looking for a way to undermine her, but she had enough to show them to justify for her demand. It was all there, in the numbers and the productivity. She wasn't ashamed of her decision to get a help from the outside, since she had found someone more than capable.

Then, something clicked inside her head and she took the carefully written letter from her brother.

"Ishbalans, he says? Huh," she muttered and spun again, chewing on her bottom lip.

XXXXX

Buccaneer was practically glowing with excitement from their little visit to the countryside. His friend had to drag him out of his parents' vacation house not to miss the last train of the day, as they had to catch another in the morning, to return to Briggs.

The Lieutenant had had such an interesting talk with Mister Miles about crazy engineering and quirky structures that he had been a small step away from asking the man to adopt him. In return, Mister Miles had liked his son's friend so much that he'd asked him to call him 'Leo' instead of 'Sir' – which, in itself, was a great feat. No one called Mister Miles 'Leo' without his very clear consent.

Miles, on the other hand, was left with a sour taste from their visit. He was happy that he had gotten to see his parents after quite a long period of time, but what his mother had told him hadn't lifted his spirits.

It might have been due to auto-suggestion, but he was starting to notice what Jasmine had told him. It wasn't evident, but there was certain reluctance in the way people dealt with him that morning.

They drunk their coffee at the train station and Miles was the one to get it. The shopkeeper didn't refuse his order and she made their coffee, but she was unnecessarily hurried. She didn't spare as much as a glance at him, as if she was afraid, and it had nothing to do with the size of his companion.

That was the first time he had ever seen someone flinching when he spoke to them, and it happened again in the train. He might not have noticed it before because he'd never looked for it, but there was definitely something going on that he couldn't quite grasp. He had heard that some citizens were reluctant to deal with any Ishbalans after the civil war had started, but he had never really seen it.

He made Buccaneer follow him to a remote booth at the back of the wagon. They took their seats facing opposite sides. Buccaneer snuggled inside his coat and looked at his friend. "Cenz for your thought?"

"Mm?" Miles asked, turning his eyes to him.

"Mate, are you alright? You seem to be thinking too many thoughts at once."

Miles resumed looking out of the window. "I was just thinking about something my mother had said."

The Lieutenant snorted. "Didn't you say she was the Mother of Mother Nags? What's gotten to you to make you so pensive?"

"I think it might be the first time she actually nailed it with her worries, but... I don't know."

"And what is it?"

Miles looked again at his friend, that time more relaxed. He even sketched a smile. "I will tell you when I know for sure."

XXXXX

The two officers returned to the fort that ran as smoothly as always, now that there was no paperwork hanging over the personnel's heads. People in Briggs were actually terrified by writing reports, it seemed to Miles, and he found out that if he volunteered to help with the staff's paperwork - when he could, evidently - they would do virtually everything for him.

What said staff didn't know was that it was easier to make a table with a few contents than to do what he gave them do, and less time-consuming. He had made sure their work was better divided over the day, of course. However, practically, they were all working much more than before. He had heard no complaints up until then, so he supposed that all was good.

He knocked on the door to the wood deposit, then entered. A man was making graphs and templates for pieces and two others were measuring and cutting the wood. They all lifted their heads when he entered.

"Captain, just in time," said the one who was working with the templates. "We've received what you've asked for, Sir!" He pointed to a small package placed over wrapped pieces of different types of wood. "I'd help you with them, but I'm full of sawdust. We're making a new shed for the horses, the other one is too rickety from last winter, and the metal shop wants their templates for their pieces faster than expected. It's a bit tight in here."

Miles smiled kindly. "No worries, keep on doing your job. Thank you for your trouble in getting these," he said and tucked the wood package under his arms and picked up the small box.

"It was the least we could do, you've been very kind to us."

The Captain tilted his head and saluted the men, then left the deposit.

That was what he was talking about, Miles thought smugly as he traversed the corridors to the office.

On an afterthought, he realised that his commander wouldn't appreciate him wanting to butcher the wood in the office, so he made a detour for his room. He would get splinters everywhere, but there was no one in there to yell at him if he did.

He left the packages on his bedroom's desk and returned to the office.

At dinner, he brought a few sheets of paper with him and a pencil, starting to doodle something on them as soon as his bottom touched the bench. He absently chewed on whatever he was getting into his mouth – and trying very hard not to think about it – and drew small shapes.

Buccaneer took a seat next to him and looked over at his little schemes. "What's that? I thought you didn't bring work at the table."

Miles didn't bother to look up at his friend. "It's not work, it's a little creative project. I want to make a chess set. These are the pawns," he pointed to the sketches of some small pieces, "and I am thinking about the bishops now."

"Do you know how to carve the wood?"

"I'm alright at it," he said. "I'm more into decorative carving, or how it's called. I'm not sure I could make a bigger structure that wouldn't fall over your head."

"That's nice, nonetheless," Buccaneer said. "Can I help you with it?"

"I'll tell you when I'm starting to make the board, I could use a hand at cutting the squares."

"Sure thing," the Lieutenant said and looked up. He elbowed Miles in the side.

"What?" the quarter Ishbalan asked, annoyed. He lifted his eyes and saw their commander take a seat across from them, right next to the doctor.

Miles looked at his friend, signalling that he had understood what he wanted to say. He wouldn't have to bring Armstrong any dinner back to the office, since she had bothered to come down to the mess hall.

He resumed doodling what he had been, feeling the steely glance of the General on him. He had to keep himself very still not to flinch. The woman didn't ask him anything about what he was doing, so he didn't say anything.

People around him chatted, but he didn't listen to them. The cafeteria started to empty, until it remained only him, Buccaneer and Armstrong. Eventually, the Lieutenant had to excuse himself to finish his work.

That left Miles and Armstrong, facing each other, but not looking at one another. She was flipping the pages of a notebook while drinking some strong tea and he was concentrating on his designs. Or he was pretending to, since he was only staring at them in order not to look at her.

She seemed to notice that and broke the silence. "Chess pieces, hm? Are you a player?"

"Yes, I like this game very much, but I didn't find a board anywhere in here. I thought I could make one."

"Hm," she made noncommittally. He took it as his cue to continue with what he was doing.

Armstrong took another sip of her tea, then set the mug on the table with finality. "I have been announced that we're to expect an inspection from Central. I want everything to run smoothly until then."

"Of course, Sir," Miles replied, looking into her eyes.

She examined his eyes carefully, reading the determination in them. 'No one ought to see those eyes,' she thought, but when she opened her mouth, she spoke only one word.

"Good."

* * *

A/N: Ta-ta, that's it for now. We are getting into the thicker part of the story that will finally lead to more *ahem* interaction between the characters. As I've said, please bear with me, because things are moving forward.

Thank you very much for reading and I'd love to hear what you think of this story so far! Feel free to leave a comment or any type of appreciation, I'm very thankful for it.

Until next time, bye bye!


	6. 6 - A Darker Vision

A/N: 'Morning! Here's a new chapter of this story, I hope you will enjoy it! Please, let me know what you think of this, I really appreciate all the support!

As usual, the disclaimer stands tall and proud, and there aren't exactly any warnings for this chapter. They will be arriving quite soon though, I promise.

So, without further introductions, here goes...

* * *

Chapter 6 – A Darker Vision

Miles started the week in very high spirits. For once, the sun had stopped burning everyone's skin without heating them, since the summer had finally left the mountains and autumn was making its way. There were no leaves to fall, because the only vegetation in Briggs consisted in pines and other conifers, and there was no rain to pour, as it reached the ground in its solid form. Well, that last part didn't do too much in autumn's favour, but at least it was a change of seasons – calendar wise, in this particular case.

In very few words, the first reason for Miles' excitement was born from the fact that he wasn't awfully fond of summer.

And evidently, the second was that, after another year of waiting, his birthday had finally arrived.

Ever since he was a boy, Miles loved his birthday. It signified another year had passed and he had lived it to the fullest, or so he hoped. He didn't enjoy overdoing it, but he had a way of feeling blessed every time his inner clock lifted up one scale.

And in perfect quietness, he would celebrate it. No one knew it was his birthday that day, because it was only stated once in his personal record, and no one had access to it apart from the Major General. She didn't look like one to care about such things - she would call them non-senses, he could bet - so he was safe.

Not even his family telephoned him on his birthday. It was the same thing like it was with his given name – no one called him on it. Only his mother made the slip from time to time, and his father even rarer. However, not even they dared to call him on the exact day of his birth. They always reached for him the next day, long before sunrise or sometimes, even a minute past midnight, but never earlier.

He didn't know from where that had all started. He knew the reason why he didn't like being called on his first name – it wasn't all that bad, he could have been named after some silly flower, but he enjoyed holding the tradition of his grandfather. To Ishbalans, names were sacred and they were only told to those who had gained the right to one's heart. He liked that tradition, even if it was one of the very few ones that he respected from them. He thought he owed that much to his ancestors.

Quite cheerfully, Miles brewed himself a hearty cup of mint tea to drink before he went to the office. He shaved in perfect silence and dressed himself in the uniform, making sure to wear a red shirt under the coat. He always wore something red on his birthday, yet another tradition he has picked up from the Ishbalans.

Unlike most days, his walk to the office was solitary. Buccaneer had had a shift during the previous night and he was definitely sleeping at that hour in the morning. Miles hummed to himself as he jumped slightly at the end of every step, unbothered by the lack of company. Actually, he rather hoped that he wouldn't be seen, because that wasn't a very dignifying march, but damn – it felt good to have that little worries in the morning for a change.

Because he was approaching the mess hall, he halted his merry stroll. He made a quick stop to pick up something to eat for himself and the General – he had taken his commanding officer's basic needs upon himself, because she kept on ignoring them – and continued his way to the office.

When he opened the office's door, he was surprised to see Armstrong sitting on the couch, drinking coffee. Since his first day in Briggs, he had assumed the task to make the coffee in the morning, so, most days, he was the one who opened the office for business. But that day, she'd beaten him to it.

He entered and, just as expected, she didn't look up at him. She was reading something, but she acknowledged him with a nod.

She appeared to have made herself quite cosy in there. The large kettle still had enough coffee to fill one cup, but not more, meaning that she had been sitting on that couch for a long time.

"Good morning, Sir," Miles greeted and left their breakfast on the table. He emptied the kettle in his usual mug and cleansed the soggy powder away. With only half a mind into it, he couldn't help admitting that her gesture to leave him some coffee, albeit a third of it had consisted of grounds, was bordering endearing. Only bordering, because she could have filtered the damned thing.

Just when he was preparing to ask if he should brew another pot, the Major General lifted her hand.

He first thought that she meant to point him to something, but, on closer inspection, he noticed that she was actually holding a small box. When he didn't take it, she finally lifted her eyes from the papers. "Take it," she said clearly and shook her arm.

After he abandoned the kettle on the table, he grabbed the package and opened it. He wouldn't have taken her as one to make gifts, so he didn't know what to say about it. Out of the box, he picked up a pair of thick wire framed goggles with round, heavily tinted lenses.

His eyes snapped at his commander, who shoved him a stack of papers. "We will be having that inspection today, Karley got the message this morning. I want you to wear those goggles the whole day and, under no circumstances, should you take them off. For nothing, do you hear me?"

Miles blinked. He didn't understand her, but he nodded. "Yes, Sir."

"Good. Keep them over your eyes at all times," she repeated, a bit rushed. She sat up and went to her desk to finish whatever paperwork she had.

Miles studied the pair of goggles. They appeared to be the sort that prevented the owner from getting sun or snow-blinded, but he would have to wear them indoors too, from what he had gathered. He wasn't about to disrespect the commander's orders, nor was he about to question them, though he wasn't sure he understood.

He opened the files locker and looked into the mirror that he has nailed to the inner side of the door. He put the glasses over his eyes. He studied himself wearing them and he noticed that they were covering his eyes completely. There was no side from which his eyes were visible, no angle and no point. They were perfectly hidden behind the thick end-pieces and the tinted lenses.

"It's going to take some time to get used to these," he mumbled, more to himself. "They are quite dark."

"Yes. Keep them on," Armstrong said and handed him another batch of papers. "Take this to the armoury," she demanded, sending him off.

XXXXX

Far sooner than he would have expected, Miles found himself on the roof, looking down at the base of the wall. He could clearly see some men descending from a black car.

A large hand clapped him on the back. "Hey, mate, fancying your sightseeing?" Buccaneer asked with a great yawn.

"What's with you here?" Miles inquired. "Weren't you sleeping?"

"Not anymore, I've heard we're having some inspection or something like that and it seems it has arrived," he said, pointing to the little crowd outside the fort. "By the way, swagger goggles you've got there! Have your Majesty's eyes became too sensitive to handle the light, Princess?"

"Ha, ha," Miles made humourlessly. "Good one, but no. The queen gave them to me and said to wear them all day. I'm trying to get used to wearing them, everything's so damn dark though them!"

"I didn't know she was into dressing up her subordinates. Huh, she's getting stranger by the day."

"Uh, I don't know if it's some sadistic pleasure of hers or not, but anyway, she all but begged me to wear them."

"Mm, that's quite an image."

"An image I ask you not to put into my head," Miles said with disdain and scolded at the Lieutenant. "Look, I don't know what the drill is, but I'll do what she says and find out what's all about later."

Buccaneer pulled on a face. "Well, you know better, mate. But I'd advise you stay outside as much as you can so you won't smack into the walls."

"Ah, how you take care of me, Lieutenant," Miles said, the worried lines on his forehead smoothing and looking composed again. He smiled. "I'll try to avoid them for you."

XXXXX

The whole inspection business turned out to be tedious and quite bothering. The so called 'inspectors' - two officers from the Human Resources - were escorted by some uninteresting officials and certain Lieutenant General Raven from Central - who was the only one worth to write home about, and not for the good reasons.

The good and fair Lieutenant General Raven was an old and unpleasant acquaintance of Olivier Armstrong's. She found herself perpetually disgusted with the man, who leered over her in the way only the sleaziest geezers could, their sly, watery eyes filled with malicious intents. She had never liked that character, and the too many encounters with him had only added to her dislike.

In the swarm of nauseous sentiments that were nurturing within herself, the one good thing that she had was Miles, who stood at her right, straight as an arrow, with his hands clasped behind his back. It was strangely reassuring to have her assistant's presence by her side, just as professional as he always was. He didn't overstep his boundaries, didn't contradict or say anything unasked, and when he had to answer, he was so diplomatic he deserved to be put on a pedestal.

He was questioned quite a lot, much more than it would have been necessary. He diverted all the questions which didn't follow his jurisdiction to his commander, even if he did know how to answer.

After a few situations similar to this, it became clear that the officers weren't there to listen to the progress of the fort's staff.

Olivier clenched her jaw to prevent herself from growling. Raven was the most infuriating scum, but come again, she might have been biased. Though he was lingering a bit too much on Miles' matter, wanting to know more about him. Anticipating that there would be some interest in him, she made them all go to the lowest level of the rooftops, so they could stay in the sun and have enough snow around to overthrow contrast, justifying his need to wear glasses.

She could be successfully called paranoid, but she had a hunch that the real purpose of their visit was closely related to the growing animosity in the East. She didn't know what the army was planning to do there, but her instinct told her that she needed to hide Miles. From what, she wasn't sure, but she trusted her brother when he had told her to be careful. He had never advised her wrongly before, even if she would never admit it.

She considered all of her subordinates as hers. Hers to do whatever she had to do with them and hers to take care of. She had adopted them all under the roof of her fort and she had to make sure that they were all safe.

Now, as they were suddenly discussing Miles' affiliation to the East over coffee, she didn't think that the conversation was in the safe area anymore.

"I hear that you have made quite an impression on the Eastern Headquarters, Captain, everyone spoke quite highly of you! I can't possibly understand why you've left it for all this cold," Raven said, fixing Miles with his small, grey eyes. "The sun is blazing up here, but it's so cold!"

"It is my belief that the body works better in a colder climate," Miles replied cautiously, risking a glance at Armstrong. She stood motionlessly, looking squarely at Raven's men. She didn't even spare a glance at the Lieutenant General. "However, I followed my orders, they are final to me."

"That's a smart man you've got there, Major General," Raven said with a beaming smile. "I have a question for you, Captain, if I may. If I were to ask every man in this fort if they'd disrespect an order, what would they say?"

"That we obey the authority," Buccaneer said as he walked to the place where they were standing. "I beg your pardon, Major General, but you are needed in the Engineering Room," he told Armstrong directly, making abstract of Raven and his acolytes.

Armstrong dismissed him and turned to Miles. "Continue with the day's routine, Captain," she ordered him as she let something fall from her hand. Miles gently stepped on it, making it look like he only moved from a leg to another. "Gentlemen, I believe that you'll find all the answers you need if you follow me," the Major General added in a terse voice.

She started marching towards the door to the inside of the fort, leaving Miles and Buccaneer behind. Raven looked back at Miles, who received some papers from Buccaneer. He spared him one more glance, then followed Armstrong inside.

When the door closed, Miles hastily removed his foot from the piece of paper and unfolded it. Frowning, he grabbed Buccaneer's forearm and dragged him in the opposite direction. He walked them to another door and marched straight to one of the spare closets on that floor.

He shoved Buccaneer inside and closed the door behind them. Miles grabbed him by the head and smacked his mouth over his friend's. He abruptly ended the sudden intrusion and looked into his eyes. "Buc, have I ever told you how much I love you?" he said, sounding very serious.

Buccaneer blinked. "You've gone daft, mate."

Miles chuckled, feeling all the tension in his stomach dissipating. "Nonetheless! I was this close to strangling that geezer, so you showed up right on time."

"Raven? He looked like a pie to me," the tall Lieutenant made sarcastically.

"I don't like his kind of pie. I have many girl cousins and if just one man had looked at them the way Raven has been looking at our General, I doubt he would have lived to leer at anyone again."

"What do you mean?"

Miles lifted his goggles on top of his head and rubbed the bridge of his nose. He stuffed the little note in his shirt pocket. "He hadn't come here to inspect anything. He's either hitting on Armstrong, which he already knows that it won't go anywhere, or he is hunting. For what, I am not sure yet."

Buccaneer watched his friend eerily. "Mate, there is one thing to smooch me in the closet, I love you too and all, but what you imply is another thing."

"No, no," Miles negated with conviction, "I know what I am saying. He is looking for something, I just can't say for what." He tapped his temple. "He has been asking a lot of questions that didn't have anything to do with work. He wanted to know about the staff, where did they come from, things like that. If they have families, what's their belief... He didn't want to know what they were doing, but who they were. No one cares about who the soldiers are, not in this country and not anywhere."

Buccaneer scratched his head. "Might be, but he came with the HR-"

"He brought them to have a reason for the visit, nothing more. They didn't say more than two words each. There's something else."

The door to the closet opened suddenly and Redmyre's red head popped up from behind it. He whistled. "I thought I was hearin' voices, but I didn't reckon I'd found you two lads! Captain, Captain, you've got quite some tastes," he said chuckling.

Miles grabbed him and closed the door to the closet. Redmyre nearly tripped over him, but Buccaneer caught him before he got the chance to knock out their second-in-command.

The quarter Ishbalan looked seriously at Redmyre. "Red, I need you to do something for me. Can you find me a way to get the Eastern edition of the news?"

"Um, yeah, sure," the ginger said. "What for?"

"I just want to check something. Actually, can you get me older editions? Let's say, from about two months ago?"

Redmyre wetted his lips, pondering. "That won't be easy, but I guess I can."

"Brilliant," Miles said. "I need something else, too. Since you work with the inventories all day, I need you to go check everyone's file-"

"Captain, people aren't on inventory," Redmyre said indignantly.

"I know, but the personnel's files are in the next room. Just make sure there's nothing written at personal info that could link them to anyone from the East. No cult from there, no house, no nothing. We're re-writing everything that doesn't match." He turned to Buccaneer. "Buc, you go help him, I'll send someone to keep watch while you two work. I'll be with you in a moment," he said and walked out of the closet.

The two remaining men looked at each other quizzically. "Um, might be jus' me mind playin' tricks, but is he alright?"

Buccaneer shrugged. "Beats me, man. Come on, let's see to what he wants us to do."

XXXXX

Miles took the shortest path to the Telecommunication Office, which wasn't by any means the easiest. Having roamed those corridors many times, he had discovered various shortcuts that admittedly involved climbing through windows and jumping off stairs, but it was the fastest and the most secluded course.

He peered through the phone's room, closing the door silently behind him. He waved to Karley, who was making faces at a map with many dots.

"Hey, Captain, I thought you were tailing the queen," he said, passing by some of his men who were wearing headphones over their ears and were writing down notes. He patted the shoulder of a man who was typing Morse codes on a pad and waved back at Miles.

"I need a secured line, please. I have to make some phone calls," he demanded from the technician.

Karley nodded. "Sure do."

XXXXX

If someone had asked her how much time had passed since the delegation had arrived, Armstrong would have replied that it had been ages. In truth, it hadn't been even three full hours.

When the clock hit another interminable hour spent with her favourite leech, Olivier had to fight her damnedest to prevent herself from smiling. They were in the Inventory Room and she noticed Tina, Miles' typewriter, stashed under a few well placed boxes. In front of her, Raven was looking over the inspectors' shoulders, reading the fort's workers' files, finding as much useful information as one would find in a white sheet of paper.

Miles must have paid a visit to those files before they arrived, just like she had asked of him. If that fucker, Raven, and his dimwits wanted to search for something, Briggs wasn't the place. She didn't know what they wanted to find, but she would do anything to make sure they didn't get even close to it.

Something like that, to be able to literally erase from someone's file and change what didn't fit shouldn't have been possible and it still wasn't completely fail proof, but the back-up of the plan consisted in a syncope in the Amestrian Military Administration. Its greatest flaw was that it produced a lot of paperwork that usually got lost or misplaced. Therefore, the National Archives of Officers and Corps, where the information about the military personnel was stored, was a mess and each Commandment had to hold copies – that sometimes were actually the originals – of the soldiers' files, as to have some formal identification of them.

That must have been the first time Olivier was thankful for that crass error of management.

She bit her lower lip when the inspectors finally got to Miles' file. Raven took it from them, opening it for himself. Olivier didn't manage to get even a glimpse of the front page. She tried not to shift from a leg to the other, trying to see something over the lump of a man. He was too big to see around him from her vantage point.

"Hm," Raven made. "It seems that today is your assistant's birthday! He didn't look too festive to me."

Olivier clenched her jaw. Of course she knew it and she knew it well, she has read his file before. "We don't care about trivialities like these," she said.

"We?" he asked, a bit amused, turning around to face her. "We, who?"

Armstrong looked straight into his small eyes. She was glad she hid one of her eyes behind her hair, because she was sure they were both very stormy. "Briggs is a machine, men operate as part of a whole. They're not individuals." She bit the inside of her right cheek, once again thankful for her hair. She sounded more like a slave owner than a commander.

Raven looked very appreciative of her comment. "Hm, is that so? Admittedly, your fort works better than all the other forts in this country combined. Is that your secret?"

"My secrets... are mine," she retorted slowly, hoping to sound playful and make the man giddy. Raven chuckled loudly at her indiscretion, moving his hand a bit. This made the front page of the file more visible, and Olivier got the chance to see what she wanted to. She was pleased to see that at the rubric 'Ethnicity', it was filled in the word 'Amestrian' – previously marked as 'Various', since he had a lot of different ancestors - and at 'Faith', there was a slender line. He hadn't written any belief, so therefore he was considered an Atheist. And, in coronation to his effort, he had changed the colour of his eyes to 'Brown'.

She let out a little smirk. She hadn't picked up a dumb assistant. If what her brother wrote to her was true, and impartial Ishbalans were actually targeted for some unknown reason, he didn't have anything written down to incriminate him, at least not in there. She could only hope no one would look in the National Archives, but there were slim chances. Yes, he still looked like one, even if he wasn't a full blood Ishbalan, but at least in the papers they had, he was safe. She knew that Raven would never make Miles take off the glasses that she had given him, since he too possessed dark skin and white hair. It would have sounded unethical coming from him.

Raven must have been thinking of the same thing, because he let out a little huff and closed the file. He moved to another, looking over it with disinterest. "Tell me something, Major General," he said, his voice a bit like a broken tune, "if, let's say, hm... the state considered something was wrong about one of your subordinates. Would you hand them over?"

Armstrong didn't skip a beat as she replied, "I obey the authority, myself."

XXXXX

Miles pushed his hands deep into his pockets to prevent himself from fidgeting. The inspection had ended just as out of nowhere like it had began, the party leaving before the sunset. Raven had looked a bit displeased, but he had hid it behind his large smile. Those small eyes had looked enraged, but he hadn't shown anything more but smiles, smiles and more smiles, those bloody smiles of his.

The inspection hadn't hindered the fort's work, but it had managed to annoy everyone. No one liked to be poked around and no one liked questions. Everyone worked just fine without them.

Miles walked back to the office to finish his share of work, twisting the insides of his pockets. He thought hard about what he had learnt from his contacts, regarding the other parts of the country. Everyone to whom he'd spoken had told him that they had received or that they were about to receive different inspections, for different reasons. Those who had already had them had told him that the inspectors had, more often than not, been accompanied by men from Central that didn't have a thing to do with the purpose of the inspection, and every time, they had questioned about the personnel and their affiliations.

He picked up his pace and finally reached the office door. He opened it without knocking, still operating on the adrenaline his adrenal gland had spewed out like he was running in a marathon.

Armstrong was seated on the little coffee table in front of the couch, biting the cap of a fountain pen and looking over a sheet of paper. Unlike the way she had gotten everyone used to, she lifted her head and looked at her subordinate. Miles clenched his jaw, watching her with intent. She studied his face for a moment, then returned her gaze at her paper.

Miles resumed his normal routine, wanting to get a bit of work done before the clock showed another day has ended. It was later than usual for the tasks he started working on, but the inspection had taken too much of his time and his work wouldn't get done by itself. Had it been possible, he would have found a way by then.

He realised that he was still wearing the goggles, so he took them off. He looked over his desk and at his commander, still seated on the coffee table. He grabbed the hem of his shirt and cleaned the lenses, making sure they shone brighter than new. He got up and waved the pair of glasses at her. "Sir, thank you for the goggles, I will put them on your desk."

"No," she spoke and looked up at him. Miles closed his mouth and looked into her eyes, both visible because she has gathered all the loose hair behind her ears. Her eyes were dark and tired, like the sea in a storm, so different from their usual cerulean blue. She saw the redness in his orbs meeting her gaze and looking confused, if a bit startled, and she immediately shook her head. Her locks fell back over her face, breaking their visual contact.

Miles looked at a spot over her shoulder, realising the mistake of looking at her like that. "Pardon me," he said.

Olivier shifted slightly in pretence of crossing her legs. She looked back at him, better guarded that time. She looked more alert than when she wasn't paying attention, but it was still evident that she felt exhausted. He wasn't sure it was only physical fatigue.

"I think it would be better if you continued to wear them, from now on," she told him, looking out the window. He drew his eyes back on her. "You did well, with the files. I saw Tina behind the boxes," she explained.

Miles looked down at his feet and smiled shyly, like a child who was proud of some forbidden thing he'd done. "I'll get her back a bit later, she has done her job for today," he said, thinking fondly of his typewriter. It wasn't the best and it made some strange noises after using it for a longer period of time, but he really liked working at it. It no longer qualified on the list of objects he used, it was more like a friend to him. She was _His Shining Tina_ , a bit like a knight in black armour.

Being curious, Miles found a way to breech into the topic of forging the fort's files. "I have noticed we're a bit of a faithless and peerless group of people," he said airily. "Or at least now, we are. I had a lot of papers to rewrite."

"I must admit, your signatures looked better than the real ones," she made, thinking of the pages that had been modified. Some of them had had signatures on them and every single one of them had been copied by her assistant. "I wouldn't have guessed you're proficient at forging."

"You'd be surprised what you can learn if both of your parents are professors. I used to imitate the writings on their student's papers, until I found out I could do my parents' signatures. After that, there wasn't a signature I couldn't take."

"Hm," Armstrong made, "can you do my signature?"

Miles' eyes shot up. That was a bit of a dangerous questions, but she seemed to know the truth already. "Only with your permission, General."

"So you've already tried it, hm? You've seen it enough times to learn it, it couldn't have been that hard for you," she said and looked blatantly at him. He felt his skull burn form the intensity of her stare. She smirked. "I think I will keep that in mind the next time I have too many papers to sign," she commented idly.

"Only if you take a part of my chores," Miles blurted out, then froze. 'Way to go, idiot," he thought grimly.

Thankfully, Armstrong started laughing. "We could do a bit of a swap, alright. Fair share, I believe I was the one promoting it," she said.

"I agree," he said. "But I'd like something written down."

"A permission from me to forge my signature?" she asked, amused. How he liked to play with fire.

Miles nodded, feeling bold.

"Alright," she accepted. "But what happens if you use it for other means than what I allow you to?" she asked as she took a blank piece of paper. She started scribbling on it.

"I believe you have the right to choose a fitting sanction, Sir."

Armstrong curved the last word of their agreement on the paper. She gave it to him, grinning slightly feral. "I shoot you," she said. "How about that?"

Miles blinked at her. He should have expected that. "Sounds fair," he echoed and signed under his name. She also wrote her name on the paper and signed the agreement. He noticed that she actually wrote that she took up the liberty of executing him if he didn't respect the terms. She retrieved the paper from him and put it in the drawer under her desk.

'Strange way to show trust,' Miles thought, but at least they were getting somewhere. She started treating him much better after they have worked together to finish the previous trimester's reports.

Cautiously, he made his way to the kettle and filled it with water. "I know it's late, but would you like some coffee, General?"

Miles put the kettle on the burner, already knowing her answer. "I reckoned you wouldn't ask," she confirmed, her irritation sounding as natural as breathing.

As he retreated to his desk, he heard her shift again. "What did you think about our little visit today?"

He seated himself on his chair and rested the goggles on top of his head. "Besides that it was badly done? I'd say that they didn't come to make sure we are treating the soldiers right. Let's be serious - no one cares about that."

"Good, we're on the same page. Do you know if this kind of 'inspections'-" she mimicked the quotation marks with her fingers, "-occurred in other places?"

"I made a few phone calls this afternoon," he admitted. "Most of my contacts said they've received something similar. They were asked to show everyone's files."

"Hm," Armstrong made. "My brother wrote to me that there has been a bit of a strange movement in Central. He works around the Martial Court," she explained for Miles. "He had a few strange cases with flagrant discriminations."

"Discriminations?"

"Yes. All the victims were Ishbalans," she divulged candidly. She expected a bit of surprise from Miles, but he didn't look fazed.

"My mother said things like that, too." He told her about what he had heard when he'd visited his parents and what he had experienced himself, at the train station.

Armstrong drummed her knuckles on her desk. "I think they are trying to find a solution to end the war in Ishbal, but I don't know what it could be. I want you to investigate into the matter."

"I've asked Redmyre to find me some Eastern newspapers," Miles said. "If you wish me to, I can keep an eye on things." 'And tell you about what I learn,' he added mentally, because he would investigate the matter anyways, even if she didn't allow him. It was too close to home not to preoccupy him.

"Yes." Olivier turned to look at the kettle. "Miles, your coffee is boiling," she expressed, voice greatly bored, not sketching a movement to extinguish the burner.

Miles sprung from the chair, nearly stumbling over his feet, and turned the burner's nozzle to a close. What liquid hadn't spilled over the edges smelled a bit like burnt mud. "Well, I hope you enjoy your coffee smoked, Sir."

She snorted. "At least it will taste of something else besides dirt."

"I couldn't agree more," Miles said, making a note to buy some coffee the next time he went out of the fort. He wondered why he hadn't bought some during his last permission.

He took a sip of his coffee. It tasted foul and burnt, but it was warm. It could have been much worse, he thought optimistically.

In truth, he couldn't help marvelling at the way the Northmen were punishing themselves with unsavoury coffee. He supposed that the storage conditions weren't the best, but still.

It was horrid.

XXXXX

Much later that evening – which turned into late night by the time he looked again at the clock - Miles finished his share of work. He noticed that the Major General was still reading at her desk and he wasn't sure if he was supposed to just leave the office, or if he should wait for her to finish.

Armstrong seemed to sense his internal conflict, because she started talking to him. "You can leave, if you've finished your work. Believe it or not, I know how to lock the door," she made sarcastically.

Miles nodded. He stifled a yawn with the back of his hand. "I shall take my leave then, Sir. You- you shouldn't stay much longer either, General," he told her, deeming himself fast enough to duck if she threw something at him. "You should rest, too."

She rubbed her eyes. "I suppose I should," she voiced hoarsely. "I think we're expecting some interesting times ahead of us."

"I hope not, but no one can be sure."

"Hm."

Miles put his things back in their respective spots. Olivier gathered hers in the middle of her desk and dragged them all in one of the drawers. Something clattered in there, but all she did was to kick the drawer closed and push her chair with the tip of her boot.

The Captain took their coats from the hamper and waited for his commander to stash away some papers. It was a wonder how someone who had discipline for breakfast could function in such a mess. Though, with every day he spent in the office with Armstrong, he believed more and more that she was a perpetual enigma.

The Major General took her coat from him and draped it over her shoulders. She shut the lights without a glance at Miles, leaving him in complete darkness to find his way to the door. Used to her antics, he blindly avoided collision with the furniture and guided himself towards the bit of light that was coming from the corridor.

Armstrong stood by the door, playing with her set of keys. Once he was out, she locked the door and started walking away. Miles followed her in silence. It wasn't the first time that they were leaving the office in that way. He had more than enough bruises from tripping over various objects when he attempted getting out of the room and hit everything he could find in his path.

They walked in amiable silence to their respective rooms. Where their paths split, Miles gathered his wits to speak. "I suppose I should start wearing them from now on, if things start getting rickety for the Ishbalans," he said, pointing to the goggles which resided on top of his head, "or at least have them with me at all times."

"It would be advisable," Armstrong said awkwardly. She felt a bit strange after giving him the pair, but she didn't know how else she could protect him if something actually happened. She wasn't a slave owner, like Raven and most people thought. She cared about her subordinates, in that resentful way of hers.

Miles nodded, understanding her concern. Hell, he felt concerned, too - it was about his hide, after all. He was aware that, if things went astray, no one would care that he was in the military. But if nothing happened and their suppositions turned out to be nothing more but paranoia and too much thinking, at least he'd landed himself a sweet pair of goggles and something to laugh about. He actually liked those things, he was somehow glad he could keep them.

"Goodnight, Sir," he said, smiling at her. "Thank you for the goggles."

"Mhm," she made inarticulately and started walking away. She stopped abruptly and called after him. "Captain!"

Miles perked up from the end of the hallway. "Yes, Sir?"

"Happy Birthday," she wished him, barely audible. "I hope you don't have any celebrating in mind."

"Not a single thought."

"Good," she said, and walked away.

Crossing his arms over his chest, Miles leaned his back on the wall. He took the goggles from the top of his head and looked at them. "Happy Birthday, ey?" he whispered to himself.

He looked at his reflection in the dark lenses, seeming a bit smug. "And those nitwits think she's made of stone. Hmpf."

* * *

A/N: Ta-ta! That's it for now, thank you very much for reading and I hope that you've liked this chapter. If you'd like, leave me some words on this, I would love to hear what you think of the story!

Until next time, bye bye!


	7. 7 - Shift in the Wind

A/N: 'Morning! Here's a new chapter of this story and I really hope that you'll enjoy it! Thank you very much for reading and please, let me know what you think of this.

Oh, and no warnings in particular for this chapter and the disclaimer still stands on. I almost forgot to mention that.

That being said, off we go...

* * *

Chapter 7 – Shift in the Wind

The mist over the mountains was slowly rising in Briggs and the mess hall was full of blubbering people. Surprisingly, unlike most mornings when he was quite jovial, Miles stood silently at the usual table.

He sipped his coffee as he looked over the old newspapers he has received from Redmyre. They weren't exactly old - they dated from at most three months before - but he preferred to call them so. He turned the pages, skimming over for some interesting comments about the conflict in Ishbal. There wasn't anything notable, besides that the whole ordeal was taking way too much time and it was a waste of too many resources, in the editor's humble opinion.

On the more objective matters, no incidents were reported to the press. Miles folded the newspaper and opened another one, searching for something to catch his eye. Yet again, nothing about what his mother had said that she had seen or what his commander had read from her brother's letter. Nothing of the sort, besides a fresh litany of humble opinions from the editors.

It made him wonder, how editors could be so unassuming in their little bubble of selfishness that they always started their monologue with the phrase 'in my humble opinion'. Such humility, they must have loved to praise themselves about their otherworldly modesty.

He tossed the paper over the ones he had already read and took another. Chewing on the hard edge of the cup, he had to ask himself how long it would take before the fragile balance in the East would be destabilised and everything would explode. Things were bound to happen, if the spirits started to ignite.

If he were to be honest, for a while he didn't even notice there was something happening in a part of Amestris. When the civil war first started, there had been a few echoes throughout the country. After that, everything seemed still, everywhere besides in Ishbal, evidently. But it didn't go as far as to call it something more than hostility between two parties. Yes, people were dying, but it has always been in mutual fights, where the rebels attacked militaries. But never otherwise. The Amestrian army tried to stifle the conflict, but they never outright attacked.

He was curious about how long it would take for the real war to arise. They have been playing at it for all those long years, but how much longer until the real fight?

He turned another page, finding himself disappointed by the lack of useful information. He drank another sip of coffee.

Next to him, Buccaneer took a seat, just like he always did. Though, unlike most days, he smacked a rolled-up newspaper over the one Miles was reading.

"What the-"

"Mate, you might want to read this," he cut him off. "Karley just returned from North City, it's yesterday's edition. Here, have a look."

Miles picked up the discarded newspaper and straightened it. On the front page, the title 'State Alchemists in Ishbal' was written in big capital letters.

His pupils dilated when he read through the article, something to do with what was called 'Order 3066'. What he understood from the lines were two things – firstly, that alchemists were being sent to the Ishbalan war theatre to calm the spirits, and secondly, that they would definitely not calm any spirits at all.

He lifted his head from the paper, which he didn't realise he was holding so close to his eyes, and the first thing he saw was the concerned face of the fort's doctor. He didn't notice her seating across from him.

Buccaneer put his hand on his shoulder. "You should see this, too." He gave him a piece of paper.

It was an official notice which demanded to all Ishbalan military personnel to come to Central for evaluation.

Miles thought he was seeing double. He had to read the paper three times over before it actually got into his head. "Is Karley in the phone room?"

Karley came over to the table, looking startled by his superior's wild eyes. "Um, I'm here, Captain."

"I need a secured line, now," Miles demanded from him and left the table in a stroll. Behind him, Karley struggled to catch up with him.

Once he received what he had asked for, Miles picked up the receiver and dialled a number he hadn't used in a while. He looked at the wall clock, it was barely seven in the morning, but his cousin would have to excuse him for waking her up.

She replied groggily to his phone call. "Yes, what the hell do you want..."

"Rahel, it's Miles," he said. He heard some ruffles and his cousin immediately sounded sobered up.

"Miles! My favourite cousin!" She boomed into the receiver. "What a miracle that you've remembered my number, I thought you forgot it, 'cos you haven't called me in ages!"

Miles rolled his eyes. "Listen, Rah, are you still in Aerugo?"

"Um, evidently? I've responded to you calling me here and all..."

"Look, I need you to stay there. Don't come back home."

"You, um- what? What's this nonsense, Miles?" she asked him, sounding genuinely surprised. "I've finished my final year at school, I don't have any reason to stay here any longer." Rahel, Miles' cousin, temporarily moved to Aerugo to earn her decree in psychiatry and she was about to return to Amestris to open her practice cabinet, just like she has always wanted. To her, it sounded outraging for her cousin to tell her not to follow her plans. Wasn't he the one who told everyone to sod off and did what he wanted? "Why the hell shouldn't I come home? Is there a problem?" she chirped indignant.

"Rahel, things are getting very bad in here. They are sending alchemists in Ishbal," he said, like it made sense.

It didn't make any sense to Rahel. "Um, so...?"

"They will tear the place apart, you genius, they can wipe out entire cities just by clapping their hands! I've seen their training, it will be a massacre," he told her. "Rahel, please, don't come back. Stay where you are, at least for me if not for yourself," he pleaded. If they were rounding up the Ishbalan soldiers, they were bound to start gathering from the population. And that could mean anything. He preferred to omit that part, for his cousin's sake, but that was bound to happen.

"But, Miles, what will happen to our family? What will happen to the rest?"

"I have no idea, but I need you to help me get people out of the country. We need to get our family out of Amestris. I will find a way, but please, don't come back. Right now, no one looking remotely Ishbalan or who has ties in there is safe."

"Are you sure? Just because they are sending some alchemists-"

"I'm sure, Rahel! I'm telling you, this is real. They want to end the war and it's going to end badly for us."

The line went silent for a moment. "Rahel?" he asked, not hearing his usually very vocal sibling anymore.

"What about you, Miles? They have your records. You look more Ishbalan than me, I only have white hair and that could mean anything, but you-"

"I'll be fine."

"How?"

Miles sighed. "I'll find a way, don't worry for me, alright? You just do what I tell you to do."

XXXXX

Olivier sat on the couch, staring at the notice she held in her hand. She chewed on the inside of her cheek, thinking about what the Central Command was ordering. How could she, as a rational human being, believe that they were calling in Ishbalan personnel just to ask them questions. That was as full of bullshit as that stupid article that they'll be sending alchemists to the front to calm the population. Even a blind man could see that they were not going there to calm anyone, they were sent to destroy. For crying out loud, her brother could lift a mountain with his alchemy, so who knew what else the others could do.

She froze. Her breathing became haggard and her heart started pounding uncontrollably. Her hand trembled suddenly and her fingers tore through the official notice.

Her brother would be sent to the front, she realised. Alex would have to fight in the war.

"Oh, Gods...," she murmured, suddenly terrified. Her brother, her little brother, would have to kill, to stain his hands. He wasn't able to squish a moth without feeling guilty, that war would break him.

She looked down at the crumpled paper in her hands. Not only would her brother be affected by this change, but also her assistant. Ishbalans were requested in Central, so Miles, by extension, would have to go there, too. She didn't think she was going to get him back, if she sent him there.

Historically, if the army summoned a certain category of people, it usually meant that they would be returned only in caskets – that, if the military had the money to spare on the coffins. She wasn't about to sacrifice a perfectly fine subordinate just because the fuckers in Central had figured a way to stop the war by shutting up a race. She had responsibility over her men.

She was not a slave owner, she reminded herself. She was a commander and she had to have people to command if she still wanted her post.

And, in a very dim place inside her head, she wasn't entertaining the idea of losing her perfectly capable subordinate to some madness the higher-ups cooked over brandy and chuckles with some suspicious dames.

She ripped the paper in half and tossed it in the bin. She didn't have time for such rubbish.

The office's door opened abruptly and Miles emerged like he was flooding the place. He looked troubled and he was holding a rolled up newspapers in his hand.

Armstrong looked at him and saw that he was trying to find his words. She didn't like that. She didn't need dysfunctional men, especially not a broken assistant. "Speak your mind freely, Captain," she demanded.

Miles clenched his jaw and focused on her. "Buccaneer showed me this newspaper and the notice from Central. That is... I will have to go there, I suppose."

"No," she said firmly. "You are not going anywhere."

"Why, Sir? This is an order from higher-"

"I said no, Captain, or are you deaf? You will stay here because I command you to, and I am your higher authority, not the Central. You listen to me, not to them, am I clear?"

Miles closed his mouth and regarded her quizzically. "Sir, this is a direct violation of official orders, we are not allowed to do that."

Armstrong made a face that was clearly saying that he was an idiot. "For fuck's sake, Miles, I thought you were an intelligent man," she snapped, irritated. "You do realise that this summon, given the turn of events in Ishbal, can very well mean anything from prison to execution, don't you?"

"I'm well aware of that, yes," he said calmly.

"Are you in a hurry to die?" she asked him, grabbing the hilt of her sword. "Tell me, so that we can get over with it."

Miles swallowed dryly. He cocked his head to the side, as in pondering. "Not particularly, no."

"Then shut that running trap of yours and do your work for today. The fort isn't going to run itself."

"Yes, Sir," Miles responded and, suddenly, he felt more relieved than ever.

XXXXX

Just as expected, things escalated in unimaginable ways since 'Order 3066' had been popularised. Casualties of a hundred people at once started to sound like a slow day. On both sides, innocent civilians were caught up in the conflict and they were killed like they were flies. Entire Amestrian villages were burnt to the ground by the Ishbalans as the Amestrian army destroyed ancient cities and defiled sacred temples. It was no longer a civil war in which rebels shot conquerors, but a fully-fledged blood bath.

Of course, the media didn't show those figures, but Miles had other ways to find out about what was going on. Fuelled by the rumours that reached his ears, he asked his cousin to find means of transportation from the border for their family, since there were so many relatives that were Ishbalans. They were a large family of intellectuals, meaning that it wouldn't take long for it to be gathered, since many of their collaterals occupied high positions in various fields.

He couldn't just remain indifferent to what was happening. Strangely, Rahel found a way to secure most of their relatives' safe passage, but he didn't ask about how she'd managed it. Thankfully, Karley kept on securing him lines to communicate with his cousin and he even went as far as to find a way for him to send her some money to help. He was sure that they weren't enough, but she seemed to do fine with their little covert operation.

As the days passed by, the entire fort turned the blind eye to the fact that he was Ishbalan. No one said a word and everyone treated him just like before. The only one who changed was himself, not understanding how everyone could remain so impassable to what was happening. It was like they didn't see what was in front of them, like they didn't fear that they were actually hiding someone who was supposed to respond to a calling.

A week later, Miles found out about the Internment Camps. Ishbalan soldiers and officers were imprisoned for their ethnicity, and he still hasn't been turned over to the Military Police. He did his usual duty, supervised the training and drew out strategy plans, offered a helping hand to the departments that needed it, and not a single soul chirped to the MPs that he should have been in prison instead of drinking his coffee on the rooftops, in the mornings.

His fear for his life turned into concern for the fort's wellbeing. Didn't Armstrong realise that her position was in danger? She was not only jeopardising her credibility, but her men's safety, because no one could possibly say that they didn't realise they had an Ishbalan working with them. Everyone knew him and how he looked.

When alchemists were finally sent to the war theatre, all hell broke loose. Half a thousand kills started to be just the work of a person, not of a squad. That was when people started to look with pity at Miles. He felt himself boil, angry at what was happening with his peers. He didn't understand why people had to die so senselessly, what have they done? They were killing children, what did they do? Nothing, but it seemed that it didn't matter.

His guts twisted every time he thought of his family. It was getting very hard to get in contact with Rahel, but when they managed to, she always assured him that she was doing what she could, that she has found some reliable help. She didn't want to tell him who was helping her, but Miles thanked all the Gods and Idols he has heard about for that small mercy.

His parents went into hiding. Thankfully, his mother had listened to him and made sure she had no written affiliation to the Ishbalans. She went as far as to steal documents attesting to her origins and, helped by the money she and her husband saved over the years, they managed to find a way to hide in another part of the country, close to the border with Creta, from where they were trying to salvage other people in need.

That was Miles' only solace while he bubbled with anger. Everything was stupid and made no sense whatsoever. He read and heard about countless deaths, and he was still alive. His General completely ignored him when he breeched the subject, giving him more chores or simply walking away when he talked. It was starting to get irritating and it didn't help that his colleagues regarded him like an endangered animal. Even those he considered his friends, like the doctor or the ever-bored Neil, pitied him. Only Buccaneer remained constant in his attitude, pretending everything was alright.

Nothing was alright, Miles wanted to yell and beat the hell out of him because he just couldn't stand it, but it was evident that Buccaneer was trying to make him feel comfortable. So did the rest, in their own ways, though no effort of theirs got to him. He only started loathing himself and his situation.

Trembling with rage he didn't know he possessed, he went one bright morning to have a word with his commander, to hear an explanation for her attitude to settle his mind. She was currently on the rooftops and he thought that it was his chance, since she wouldn't be able to escape his presence. Evidently, she could anytime jump off the roof, but he knew that she wouldn't do anything as extreme as that just to avoid him. Not only that, but he would make quite the impression on her – no one dared to contradict her on the roof, for the obvious reasons.

He marched through the fort, passing by other people and not stopping to respond to their salutes. He all but ran to the familiar staircase to the rooftops. He climbed the stairs three at a time and opened the door like he wanted to unhinge it.

As suspected, he found Armstrong with her back to the door, talking to some soldiers. He took a deep breath and steadied himself. Confidently, he went to his commander. "May I have a word with you, General?" he asked her politely.

She turned to look at him. "What is it, Captain?" she demanded, not sketching a gesture.

"Can we talk in private?"

"No," she refused and started marching towards the lift to the higher level. He followed her. "Tell me what you want as we walk."

Miles studied her over, struggling to find his words. He was gambling there, because what he wanted from her was a double-edged sword. He could either live or die, and he wasn't sure of either outcome. But he decided that he had to know. He couldn't live like that, having people pitying him and having to worry that others might suffer because of him. He wanted to understand what was happening and why was that.

He wanted to be ignorant no more.

Yet he still didn't open his mouth. The lift they have taken to the upper level came to a halt and he still didn't talk. Armstrong clicked her tongue behind her teeth. "Tch, I don't think you realise, Captain, but I don't have all day. Speak already or go do your work, we don't have time to waste."

"Sir," Miles blurted, "Why am I still here?"

The Major General's only visible eyebrow shot up on her forehead. "Why do you think? You work for me."

"That's true, but, Sir, do you realise how badly you are jeopardising your authority with the troops? In what danger you are putting everyone, just by keeping me here? I'm just one person, they are more."

Armstrong put her hand on her hips, unimpressed by her assistant. "So? What do you want me to do? Send you to be shot or to do Gods know what?"

"That would be the safest-"

"Miles," she interjected, "why do you ask me such idiocy?"

Close to their location, the soldiers gathered on the roof snapped a salute for their commander. Miles pressed his lips together. Sun got into his eyes, bothering his vision, and he regretted not wearing his gifted goggles. He would have worn them, but he needed to make a point, to have Armstrong see his eyes and realise what she was playing at. He was doing a bit of a leap of faith and he hoped she would catch him, because otherwise, he would break his neck, and badly.

As expected, she was unfazed by both his silence and his appearance. It was the same to her. She started walking towards the soldiers that were idly waiting, all staring in the distance, like they weren't seeing them.

She started giving him a lecture about prejudice and how it led to weakness. Miles didn't find any flaw in her speech, but he still didn't agree with her. Yes, Briggs was a location they couldn't afford to lose. Yes, they were a homogenous group that had to act as one. And yes, his perspective over things was unique due to his blood and contact with various civilisations, but that didn't mean he wasn't just as expandable as everyone else.

He looked into her eyes, much bluer than the sky above them. He wanted to contradict her, that there were more chances for him to cause her problems than to help her, given the way things advanced. For some unknown reason, he could feel it in himself that she wouldn't hurt him in any way, even if he kept pressing the same matter.

That, until she grabbed the hilt of her sword and unsheathed it. She kept it by her hip, but it was clear that she was losing her patience with him. The metal shone in the bright light of the morning, bringing out the beauty of the script that was carved into the long blade.

Her eyes turned almost black as she gazed at him. She looked at him like she has seen straight into his little gamble. She looked at him like she wanted to tell him that she knew his game and she wasn't giving two damns about it. She would cut him right there if he dared continuing to question her authority.

Because that was what he was doing there. He was doing what no one ever ventured to do.

He was questioning her capability as a leader.

That's why she needed him, Miles supposed, and that was her response to him. He was the only one who had enough courage to tell her she was wrong and to stand up to his belief.

His gaze returned the non-verbal challenge. He didn't have any weapon but his eyes to put in front of him, all he had were his blood heritage and his intelligence. That was all he could put on the table. He decided to tempt fate again, to see if it would burn him or not. "Major General," he said, almost defying her, "what would you do if I decided not to listen? If I decided not to forgive the Amestrian Military because of what they are doing to my kin? I have every right to."

He saw a flash of amusement in Armstrong's eyes, but it was replaced by determination. She raised her hand, pointing the sharp tip of her sword straight at her assistant. Then, he was sure she saw right inside his mind. "Fine then, bring it on," she told him, her words sounding mocking to his ears. "Given my position, I will accept your challenge to a duel anytime."

'I know what you're doing, you dog,' Olivier thought as he watched her unfazed. She needed men like him just for that little demonstration. Those were the kind of people one had to rely on, not those who obeyed you without asking questions. And that's what he was doing, testing the boundaries of her trust and all but smearing into her face that she actually depended on him.

Miles could almost hear that thought going through her head. Her eyes sparkled with malice and he knew very well that she would strike him if he challenged her further.

With that in sight, he met her gaze. His crimson eyes were definitely a shade or two darker than usual, but not in fear – they were in awe. He suddenly realised that he would gladly follow that woman to the end of the world and, if it was needed, he would die for her.

Olivier read that in his expression and lowered her sword. Just like when he was playing poker and cleaning the table, he threw himself into the game so fiercely, he knew he wouldn't lose. Even if he was on the brink of losing, he still won because no one believed he could lose. He wasn't the kind who would admit defeat and even if he seemed to submit to her in front of her threat, that didn't mean he would stop chancing his fate. His eyes said that very clearly.

She needed him like he needed her. He needed her to survive and she needed him to tell her when she was being foolish. That simple.

"No? No defending your rights?" she asked him. Miles held her gaze, not a muscle betraying his full concentration. "Nothing? Pity," she scorned. "Well then, stop asking pointless questions and follow me, now," she said and started walking toward a door that led back to the inside of the fort.

Miles strolled behind her, clasping his hands behind his back. It was business as usual, it seemed, and his mind had to do a bit of a triumphant dance. If before that, he felt fear for his life and a terrible confusion, now, he knew he didn't need to have the slightest worry. He was covered for.

He fell right in rhythm with her, walking behind her. She raised her hand and waved it at him, beckoning him to walk alongside her. With a longer step, he was in line with her, walking by her side like an equal. It was a strange feeling, but not unwelcomed.

They didn't talk while they marched deeper into the belly of the fortification. Miles casted quick glances at the Major General, but she looked straight ahead, like she was oblivious to his presence.

She was doing it on purpose.

After they've traversed what felt like half of Briggs, they reached a door he realised that belonged to Armstrong's quarters. That was a bit too much even for her, to have a subordinate mistrust her and then to shove him into her room for who knew what, but somehow, it was a dubiously entertaining thought.

Miles quickly erased that from his mind. He could dream of everything he wanted to, yet he wasn't that much of a dullard to believe in everything his mind spewed at him.

She unlocked the door and entered, waiting for him to follow before she locked it back. She strolled straight to her closet and got out a few uniform jackets.

That bit of promiscuous scenario that formed when he first saw their destination bled out when the clothes appeared, so Miles settled with looking around the room to abolish the wonder of the previous notion. He remembered that Armstrong told him that their rooms were similar – and they were, but only in architecture, because her bedroom was an outright mess. She had papers and opened books scattered across the floor and her desk looked like it had been bombarded, all sorts of objects and utensils randomly gathered in piles of various heights. He saw the walls full of drawings – he hasn't been aware that she had any artistic inclinations – and his eyes stopped over a frame that contained the photograph of her family. 'Mhm, and you don't care about them at all. And you dare say I am full of bullshit,' he thought, discovering yet another subtlety in his commander.

The Major General appeared in his line of sight and he had to avert his gaze from the photograph, as it wouldn't be considered polite. She showed him her personal room, but that didn't mean that he had the permission to nose through her belongings.

She cleared the desk of what it contained on it, papers and bottles falling to the floor or landing in opened drawers, and she laid the uniform coats over the table top.

A few of them seemed to be her size, but the rest were huge. Miles regarded her quizzically.

"How would you like a promotion, Captain?" she asked him as she ripped the epaulets from one of the smaller uniforms.

Miles blinked dumbly. What was she talking about?

She wasn't impressed by his incredulity and she continued to rip parts of the uniforms. She gathered the badges in a neat pile that didn't look anything like the way she stored her things. "Take off your jacket," she demanded and extended her hand to him. "Come on, I don't have all day."

Miles was still dumbfounded, but he shrugged off his overcoat. He deftly unbuttoned the blue coat underneath, leaving his upper body only covered by a brilliantly purple shirt.

It was her turn to blink in surprise. Miles scratched his head slightly embarrassed and handed her his uniform. "The black ones are still wet from washing," he explained, not knowing what else to say.

"Why am I surprised," she commented as she tore the shoulder decorations from his coat, "you can sometimes put a peacock to shame."

"I shall take it as a compliment, thank you," he said plainly, too horrified of what was happening to his uniform. "Um... what are you doing, Sir?"

"Well, Miles," she said as she showed him one of the epaulets that had a golden star stitched over many slim lines, "Do you know how to sew?"

His brows knitted in confusion. "Yes, but-"

She put the epaulet she was holding on the desk and threw him a large jacket along with the shoulder decorations she has severed from his coat. "Then start sewing." She gave him a needle and some thread.

Miles looked at the items in his hands, then at her. "Sir, what-"

"I get that your brain's gotten short-wired, but you can use your hands, right?"

"Yes, but-"

"Shut up, Miles," Armstrong snapped. "From today on," she said as she picked up his discarded coat, "you can consider yourself a Major."

"I'm not a Major, Sir, even if you stitch other decoration on my uniform," he said. "It's not exactly legal... I mean, not handing me over to the police is one thing, but this is too much."

"Do you think I care about that? Look, I've got it all covered, just do what I've told you."

Miles unfolded the much larger coat and looked at it. "Is this Buccaneer's?"

"Yes, he's being promoted too, who would have guessed," she babbled idly as she carefully sewn Miles' coat. It was flattering to watch her deal so gently with his belongings, if he were to be honest, but he was still reluctant. She was showing too much kindness that made him wonder when she would bite.

Olivier sensed his hesitation and stopped her needlework. She took a deep breath to steady her urge to strangle him for his constant incredulity from that day. "Look, put yourself in my situation. I have an Ishbalan subordinate in my custody that I'm supposed to hand over but I don't want to. One bloke named Captain Miles. If those twats from Central think to look into my matter, and see that this Captain Miles hasn't been handed over, they would come and search for Captain Miles. But, what would you say about that! There's no Captain Miles to find," she said, talking in a way he thought that she used to speak in when she explained something to her younger siblings. "And do you know why? Because we have a Major Miles, who we are well aware he's the exact same person, but they don't know that. Got it?"

"It makes sense to an extent," Miles admitted. "But even so, I don't have the needed papers."

"Why, of course you do," she said and returned to her work with the needle, "because I'm promoting Buccaneer legally and you can forge signatures."

Miles, who has started sewing Buccaneer's new rank to his coat, stopped with the needle only halfway through the fabric. "You want me to forge official papers?"

"What, you can't do it? Ah, but that's upsetting," she made, sounding disappointed.

He looked at the thread sticking out of the needles' ear. "If Buccaneer's promotion is legal, then why am I sewing him my ranks?"

"Because I didn't receive his new coats yet, that's why, and if we're having another inspection, we would look bad," she explained annoyed. "So, I take it that you can do it?"

"Well, Sir," Miles said impressed, "it will be a bit of a challenge, but I still have my papers from when I received the rank of Captain and I can use them. How hard can it be, after all?"

Armstrong grinned, showing her teeth under her full lips. She looked positively gleeful. "That's the spirit, Major," she said with complicity and cut the thread with a nails scissor.

She had attached one of her old epaulets to Miles' coat. She had one more left to sew.

For now.

XXXXX

Later that day, Miles and Armstrong sewed the used epaulets to all of his coats. It hasn't been the easiest of tasks, but they got it done.

They moved to his room after he put his coat back on. He took Buccaneer's jacket along to give it to his friend the following day, when he would ask him to come over. It wouldn't be ethical to hand him the coat over dinner, when everyone could see them. People were bound to notice their sudden change in ranks, but no one would comment. Not about them. They were well liked in the fort.

He wouldn't have expected his commander to offer to help him with the rest of the sewing. He could have done it himself, but she followed him to his bedroom after they closed the office. She took half of his jackets and started ripping the stitches on the shoulders.

Miles made them some mint tea, which he still had in industrial quantities, and imitated his superior. He took one of the pristinely ironed coats and tore the stitches of the ranks.

"Sir, how come you have so many old uniforms? I thought they were supposed to be handed over when one is promoted."

Armstrong tied a knot and cut the thread. "I kept them for emergencies like this, you never know when you might need them," she explained. "No one really checks for returned uniforms, let alone for returned badges. Those, I keep if I need a disguise, but the coats, I keep them because I never find ones to fit." She shivered slightly. "I feel like a squished sausage in everything they've sent me lately and I had to search for ones to fit for a long time," she said and motioned for her chest. "It's a pain in the ass, trust me."

"I believe you," Miles replied with sympathy. He supposed it wasn't easy for someone of her shape to find something that actually fitted. "It's good that you've found a solution."

"It's alright," she admitted, "but the nasty thing is that some of them started to be too tight on me. I feel like someone's cupping me in odd places."

Miles chuckled as he did another loop. Olivier shot her head up. "Te-he, you might be laughing, but you have no idea how it is to rummage through mountains of uniforms and search for a jacket that won't suffocate you or pants that won't leave your arse hanging out. Actually," she said, pointing the tip of her needle at him, "I think you should see how it is."

It was his turn to look up at her. "Tch, don't make that face at me, Miles," she said. "Next time I want a new uniform, I'm sending you to get me one. And if it doesn't fit me like a glove, you don't want to see what would happen."

"Yes, Sir," he retorted with a kind smile.

"I'm not joking."

"I wouldn't dare dream of it, Sir."

They returned to stitching in amiable silence. When she finished with the jacket she has been working at, she looked around the room. Miles did like he'd planned and found an armchair, a striped monstrosity that looked cosy enough to read in and even take a nap. He changed the drapes over the windows, the usual dull grey ones being replaced with orange fabric that had little dots on it. He seemed to have stapled some coloured paper on wooden frames and built some screens that separated the room in little compartments, like it was a small flat.

She also noticed that he didn't have the foot lamp that he said he would get. Taking another jacket from the table, she opened her mouth to talk. "I see you've kept your promise and redecorated."

"I tried," he said. "I've yet to find a decent carpet and a lamp, but it's feeling more like a place that's lived in."

"I think I've seen a foot lamp in the storage," she said matter-of-factly. "It might be in need of some polishing, but I think it works."

"Really? I will check on it, thank you!"

"Mhm," Olivier hummed. "It has golden shade and some horrid tassels, if I'm not mistaken."

"If that's so, Sir, then it's perfect," Miles grinned, flashing his teeth.

Armstrong had to hide behind the jacket to fight off a smile. That day was turning odder by the minute, but nothing could be queerer than what she felt when Miles smiled so excitedly at her. He was such a strange character.

They finished the task later that night and the Major General started her leave. She'd done what she wanted, she had no other reason to stay any more.

As she walked to the door, she halted to have a final word with her assistant. Miles, who came before her, waited patiently for her to speak her mind. She was glad that he didn't start thanking her for what she did for him or some other display of gratitude. She just didn't like them.

She put a hand over the knob. "You should start wearing the goggles even inside," she advised him. "It's a matter of preserving our hides. Don't forget that, if this gets out, we are both in shit. Remember that."

"I will, Sir."

"Good," she said and opened the door. She started walking down the corridor and when he bid her goodnight, she only lifted her hand and waved without turning to look back.

Miles leaned on the doorframe, thinking of what his commander did for him. She has offered him a chance to save himself from the danger that his kin was in. He didn't know if he would ever be able to repay her in kind, but he vowed to himself that he would find a way.

One day.

* * *

A/N: That's that for now, thank you very much for reading! As usual, I'd love to hear what you think of this story!

Next chapter, we will get to the part where the warnings make sense, so stay tuned for more!

So, until then, bye bye!


	8. 8 - The Changes in a Man

A/N: 'Morning! Here's a new chapter of this story with a great deal of emotional stuff (or at least, that's what I intended). One of the more mature aspects of the warnings is finally touched, meaning some graphic scenes will follow.

Please let me know what you think of this chapter, I'm looking forward to her from you! Thank you very much for reading!

That being said, off we sail...

* * *

Chapter 8 – The Changes in a Man

The tiny bit of blissful respite that Miles experienced after he had confronted his superior officer on the roof evaporated into thin air with a nightly telephone call. It hadn't been all that long since the day he had been so surprisingly promoted without the permission of the higher-ups from Central. It couldn't have been more than three days since that day, but with one single event, it all fell back to distant memory.

It was late and the sun had already set for a while. Miles was absently scanning through the papers he was sent back from Central regarding his promotion – actually, Buccaneer's, but it appeared that the Human Resources were more preoccupied with other things to notice that a secondary promotion had been made, one that hadn't been approved by anyone – when Karley rushed into the office, breathless and pale. "Major," he called him after his new rank, "you've got an external phone call."

Miles suspected it had to be something urgent, because otherwise, the call would have been redirected to the telephone in the office. He nodded and followed Karley to the telecommunications room, where he was shown to a heavily wired device.

"It's secured, you can talk freely," Karley told him, his brows low like he was feeling sorry for something. "I, um- I'll leave you be, you can make as many calls as you need."

With that, Miles was left alone in the room. He looked around and noticed there was not a soul beside him in there, though that wasn't due to the hour – they all cleared the room for him to speak in peace.

He gulped. That didn't sound like good news.

"Miles here," he spoke in the receiver. He heard sobbing on the other end. "Hello?"

"Hey, Cus'," a small, shaky voice replied.

"Rahel?" he asked, recognising his cousin. "Is everything alright? Are you crying? Did... did something happen?"

He heard a rustling noise, like she was blowing her nose. After a moment, she retorted, sounding a bit calmer. "Yes, Miles, I need to talk to you..." Rahel took an audible breath, sounding clammy. "I'm sorry, but... I mean, y- your commander assured me over the phone that it's safe to talk to you through this line, so, um-"

Miles' brows shot up, getting a bit impatient with his cousin's slur. "My commander? What does she have to do with you?"

"That's not important," Rahel snapped. "Look, I'm still in Aerugo. I did exactly as you've told me, I got everyone I could out of the country..." Her voice started to sound broken. "I heard, you were right... They've- they've been doing horrible things at home, Miles, you can't believe what our folks' been telling me..."

"Shh, Rahel," he soothed her, understanding her shakiness. She was a sensitive person, after all, even if she always acted tough. "It's alright, sweetie. You're safe, that's what matters."

"Yes, Miles, but Grandpa and Grandma are dead. They were killed by some madmen," she murmured and the line filled with incoherent sobs. "They killed Uncle Adil, too, and Old Man Mabuz from across the street," she continued, sniffing hard, "They're dead, Miles, and many people we knew," she repeated, then starting crying again.

Miles felt his knees give out and he swooped to the floor. He couldn't believe what he was hearing. It couldn't be real.

Rahel started talking again. "I did what I could, many of ours are safe, I- I've got them out, Miles, I've done it. I did what you've told me, everything you said," she repeated, her voice trembling, "I did it, but I couldn't... I couldn't help Grandpa and Grandma... Cousin Tara told me that Grandpa said he didn't want to leave, that he was too old to hide, and it was better to have someone else saved instead of him. He said to get Grandma out, but she said she's not leaving him. They helped the rest get out of the village and they were killed for it, Miles, they were slaughtered... I just couldn't do more-"

"Rahel, you did fine," Miles said, struggling to keep himself in check, "You did well, girl, okay? You saved the rest, that's what matters. You helped them."

"We got some friends, too, and some neighbours. I couldn't do more...," she repeated herself, sounding hysterical. "And Uncle Adil... I know how much you loved him, I'm so sorry, Miles..."

"It's alright, little lamb," he whispered, his voice breaking. He swallowed hard and found the courage to ask. "What's that thing about my commander?"

"She- she called me. I don't know how she had my number, but she told me things about you that proved she knew you, you know, and I believed her. She secured the safe passage through the border and helped me find loggings for everyone. She took care of everything, Cus'. She saved many from our village and some others, many that we know are here," Rahel said. "Some went to other places, but she made sure there were means for all of us. She's a good person, please thank her for us. I don't know if I'll be able to get in touch with her too soon, it could get dangerous if I keep calling Amestrian lines. Please, Miles, thank her for us, will you?"

Miles smiled ruefully. That is what Armstrong had meant when she said she got things covered. She meant that she would help his family, not just him. "I will, Rahel, don't worry. Thank you for listening to me. Please be careful now, yes?"

"I promise, cousin. I will take care of everyone for you. You, be safe for us, understood?"

Miles nodded, even if he knew she couldn't see him. "I will be, Rah. I promise."

He hung up and dialled the number of some of his father's relatives that lived in Creta, close to the border with Amestris. His parents went there at their son's insistence, but they promised to return to Amestris as soon as the spirits calmed down. They weren't in danger because none of them looked Ishbalan, but Miles didn't want to risk their lives if they could help it. They have taken along some of their students and other family members and acquaintances.

His mother answered the phone and she immediately started weeping when she heard his voice. Every time she heard him those days, ever so rarely, she was crying. "My boy... you're safe," she gurgled. "Ishbala... Leo, come, it's Farid!" she called after his father. He could hear steps closing in and he heard his father thanking the Gods for taking care of his son for yet another day.

Miles sighed wetly and he told his mother about her parents and her youngest brother. He heard the receiver drop on the other line, but his mother started telling him comforting words right away, long before she picked the device up from the floor and placed it back by her mouth. She knew how much he loved his grandparents and she knew how hard it was for him to be alone in that moment. He was a grown up man, but no one deserved to be alone in moments like that, when people they loved died.

Listening to the trembling voices of his parents, Miles felt his resolve break and, for the first time in many years, he started crying like a child.

XXXXX

Olivier Armstrong collapsed on the bed, nearly missing the mattress, and pressed her free hand over her mouth in shock. She read the two letters she held in her right hand over and over, jumping from one to the other, until her vision became clouded and she couldn't distinguish the words.

She should have expected that, but she had dared to dream that the day would never come. That day when-

Knockings on her door startled her and chased her thoughts away. If she would have been in a better state, she would have told the one standing at the door to come in – since there was someone stupid enough to knock on her door – but she didn't find her voice as steady as she wanted. She wiped the small tears that formed at the corner of her eyes and went to the door, changing her expression into one of annoyance. She hoped the idiot behind the door had a good reason to disturb her. She wasn't in any mood to listen to morons.

She opened the entrance to her room and she found Miles. He was still clothed in his uniform, something that was so rare for him at that hour in the night, when he usually wore those colourful robes of his and floral shirts.

She looked at his face and something in her chest panged. He looked mournful. She didn't remember seeing him like that before. He usually smiled or looked as impersonal as a frying pan, but never like that.

"I'm sorry to disturb you at this hour, Sir, but may I come in?" he asked her, sounding guarded, despite the inquire.

She would have normally said a firm 'No' and slammed the door into his face, but she found herself unable to. She stepped aside and beckoned him to enter.

She closed the door behind her. "Take a seat, Miles," she told him and motioned for one of the chairs. Miles took one and rotated it to face the other that was closer to the desk. His eyes were caught by the opened letters on the bed. Olivier watched them mortified, wanting to slap herself for forgetting them out in the open, but she hadn't suspect she would be having any guests. She never had, besides Buccaneer, who sometimes came over to complain about this and that and she had to kick him out of her room eventually. Though the bear-man was a bit like a brother she didn't need but still got, so he didn't count as a visitor.

Miles, on the other hand, she didn't know as what he counted. Thankfully, he didn't say a word about the papers on the bed and decided to look at her with a little smile. It didn't have the same power as usual and, once he lifted his goggles on top of his head, she noticed that it didn't reach his eyes. They were as dead as a fish on wasteland.

Armstrong returned the favour and didn't ask what has happened. Instead, she motioned for a cupboard. "You and me both look like we need a drink," she said.

"What makes you say that, Sir?" he asked, but he didn't manage to sound cheerful nor sarcastic. He sounded pathetic.

'Shit,' she thought. If there was one man she counted on never to show his real emotions, it was Miles. "I have a hunch, let's say."

"I couldn't agree more with you, Sir."

"Take two mugs, then," she said, pointing to the low table by the desk, on which a few mugs of various colours were upturned. "I hope you like your brandy in a mug, because it won't get any fancier." She got a bottle out of the cupboard that she has pointed to. It was opened but it was fairly full, and the liquid looked like something strong.

"It could very well be served in a jar," he joked mirthlessly, "and it wouldn't matter to me."

Armstrong nodded. "I hear you, but only wine is drunk in jars," she babbled and, surprisingly, he smiled a little.

"Tell me about it. My cousin and I once snatched a bottle from her father and all we had with us were my mother's jam jars, and we, stupid kids, ate what was in the jars and then poured the snatched alcohol in them. We got drunk with a few sips, after we d eaten so much sugar. My mother was so mad on us," he told her with a longing smile.

She chuckled. "That's how I got my brother drunk once – I filled him with sugar and then gave him our father's finest gin, undiluted and all. I drank too and it was fun, but the headache the next morning... no, that wasn't even slightly amusing."

Miles chuckled lowly. "Hm, so I'm not the only one who corrupted their younger siblings."

"Why else would we have them, if not to mess with them?" Olivier said. Sadness suddenly washed over her and she felt cold.

Miles seemed to have noticed the change. She poured the drink in the mugs and offered him one of them. They clinked their mugs together, the sound of the ceramic odd for the brandy, and drank to the bottom. She poured them some more.

After another swig, Miles looked at his commander. She appeared upset and the rims of her eyes were red. In the shadow of his own suffering, he thought he could at least keep her company. He, for one, needed it like air. "Sir... are you alright?" he asked, breaking the silence.

Olivier cringed. So much for not asking questions. "Yes," she said. She shook her head and put it in her palms. "No, I'm not alright," she groaned. She lifted abruptly and Miles was sure she was going to strike him – for what reason, he couldn't guess – but she strolled to the bed and grabbed the papers that laid on it. She sat down on the mattress and lifted the letters. "I've just received these," she explained. "I should have seen it coming, but I hoped it wouldn't happen. It's only my fault, I know it, it's my fucking fault, but I can't do a thing about it," she said, shaking with anger and regret.

Miles, still frozen on the chair, watched his commander, his always composed and stern commander, break in front of him. Her cheeks turned red and her eyes trembled under her knitted brows. She looked at him with a silent plea, like she begged him to listen to her.

He left the chair and approached her position. She motioned for him to take a seat next to her and he did, so gently he might as well have been afraid to disturb the mattress.

Armstrong didn't pay him any heed and instead, she shook the papers.

"What happened, Sir?" he asked her with concern.

"It's- ah, it's stupid, forget about it," she snapped. She hated the way she felt and she hated that someone had seen it. She would be mocked for her weakness, she knew it. Those as powerful as her, once they broke down, they only fell. Her fall would be hard.

Miles didn't start laughing nor did he say anything rude to her. Instead, he raised a hand like he wanted to pat her shoulder, but decided against it. He gathered his hands back in his lap. "If there's something that causes you pain, Sir, then it's not something stupid."

"How would you know?" she asked vengefully. His face fell. She regretted it at once. "I'm sorry, it was uncalled for... I just feel like shit for this," she motioned with the papers again. "I've got a letter from Alex. That's my little brother, the one who is in the army. He's an alchemist and he's great at it. He works with the Military Police, around the Penal Court, but I knew he wouldn't ever be promoted because he's so gentle and he only wants to help, so I told him to join the state alchemists programme."

One snowy eyebrow rose on Miles' forehead. He didn't interrupt her, but he saw where that was going.

"He wrote to me. He's being sent to Ishbal, to join the war. He's the big guy in the photo," she pointed to the frame over the desk, "and he has a heart of gold. His alchemy..." She paused. "They call him the Strong Arm Alchemist. He loves everything that walks the earth, but he can destroy an entire building with just one punch into the wall."

She swallowed dryly and looked at her hands. She could feel her assistant's eyes on her face, but she couldn't face them. His kin was being slaughtered and her brother, whom she persuaded to become a state alchemist, would help kill some more.

"It's only my fault, Miles. I only thought about how he could get promoted, how he could sell his soul to the fucking military just to get some bloody stars." She finally turned her eyes at him. "What the hell did we get from this fucking army, hm? What did we get?"

He earned another day of living, Miles thought, but didn't say it. If he hadn't enrolled, he didn't know what would have happened to him in the context of the war.

Olivier looked again at the now crumpled letters. "The other letter is from a friend of mine," she said. "Roy Mustang. He's an idiot I've met in my final year at the Academy, but he's not a bad guy. He's idealistic and has a bright mind in that head of his, stupid as he is." She breathed in sharply. "He's what they call the Flame Alchemist. He can burn anything to the ground with the snap of his fingers."

The image of the burning bodies her friend would leave in his path terrified her. "He's a git and he's got a mouth bigger than him, but I know he didn't join for something like that. Neither of us did. He writes that he has to go to Ishbal, too, and he's afraid like shit. He's got another friend, a guy named Maes Hughes, who jumped for me when a dickhead was hitting on me – he broke his nose and he was barely half through his first year of training. I didn't need the help, yet he gave it so selflessly... I liked the bloke, he was decent, but Roy says he has no idea where he is. He thinks he's on the front. He doesn't know if he's still alive or not, he lost all contact."

She drew in another shaky breath. "They're all good people, they don't want to hurt anyone... And Alex... he asks me in his letter to pray for him not to have to make too many victims, to have as many spared as it's possible. He wants me to pray for him, me! What good would that do? After the shit I've done?" she made hysterically. "It's my fault, damn it!"

"It's not your fault, Sir," Miles cut her off. "You only wished what was best for him, you couldn't have known this would happen."

"But I knew!" Olivier exclaimed madly. "It was obvious, Miles, it was obvious that they were recruiting weapons. Why the hell would they need people who can make others explode or turn concrete to rubble? For what else? Extreme demolition?" She shook her head. "I only thought about myself and how I would look if I had another sibling in the army, that's what I did. How I could make more liaisons with positions of power and how I could advance in my career. I run a fucking fort and I'm not even thirty, not even close to it, but what else do I have, Miles? I have squat, that's what I have!"

"You have us, General," Miles interjected. "You have the people in the fort. They all respect you."

"Pff, please," she made. "They fear me."

"I personally don't, and I work here, you know," he told her calmly. "Nor does Buccaneer. Or the doctor, or Henschel, or Neil and I could name many others. We respect you, General, and the fear is born out of that, I've told you before. We just don't want to disappoint you, that's all."

Armstrong narrowed her eyes. "That has nothing to do with it."

"It has everything to do with it! Look, Sir, I won't speak in my colleague's stead, but I can speak in mine," he said and pressed a hand over his heart. "I'm here right now and you have someone to glower at because you didn't send me to Central. I have a real chance to survive this stupid war because you didn't hand me over," he spoke. "And so does my hoard of relatives and many other people they care about, because you helped them. My cousin called and told me about it, Sir."

Olivier's expression turned blank and her mouth opened slightly as she gasped. She closed it and swallowed air. His red eyes were looking straight at her and she finally saw that they were bloodshot and tired, like he has just stopped crying. His shoulders slumped and his gaze finally averted to the floor. "They wouldn't have made it if you hadn't helped them, and I didn't even have to ask. I..."

Miles rose from the bed, revealing his full height. "I wanted to thank you for that, General. From everyone."

He turned to leave but she caught his hand. She immediately let him go, but at least she stopped him. "I was insensitive, pardon me," she said, swallowing a huge bite of her pride. "You have much greater worries than I do."

"Nonsense, Sir," he told her. "I know where my family is, you don't know where your brother and your friends will be tomorrow. I know my folks are safe, but you don't know if yours will survive this madness. You have every right to worry."

Olivier pressed her lips together. He had a point, she supposed. "How is your family?" she asked. It was only polite to ask, since he had listened to her. "Are... are they all fine?"

"Well, most of them are," he replied, still standing up. With every word, he got closer to the door. "My maternal grandparents were killed and so was my godfather, who was actually my uncle," he explained idly, "and some other scattered ones, but most of them are fine."

Armstrong did notice he was getting closer to the exit, even if he might have not realised it. "My condolences," she offered dryly.

"Thank you," he retorted equally affectionless.

Olivier raised and made a step towards him. He didn't realise he was about to extend his hand to the doorknob. "Um," she made unarticulated. "Do you happen to know any prayers?"

Miles looked taken aback. Was she making fun of him?

She bit her lower lip. "I'm not a religious person and I don't think I know any prayer that could apply in this case... I'm not sure I know a prayer from the beginning to the end, but... I thought you might know one."

"I'm not a practitioner either. I'm not sure what I should be practising, actually," he replied candidly, "but my godfather, Uncle Adil, he is, I mean, he- he was a priest. He's the one who died," he said sourly. "He must have been praying for everyone when he was killed. He had a very generous nature, but I'm diverting."

"Did he teach you any prayers?"

"Yes... I know a few, but I'm not sure what they are all for," Miles explained. "They could very well be for calling out for rain."

"Are they in Ishbalan?" she asked.

Miles nodded. "I have no problem with the language, but I can't say I understand everything the prayers mean. They are rather... philosophical, I'd say."

"Well, at least we have the chance to ask for rain."

His lips formed a small smile and he extended a hand. She looked at it quizzically. "Ishbalans treasure touch above all, they say it means communion. All prayers are said holding hands, even if you are alone. Then, you hold your hands together," he explained. "May I?"

Olivier nodded and he took her hands in his. Her hands were cold and rough around the edges, but then again, so were his. He dragged her with him to the floor until they were kneeling in front of each other. "Repeat what I say, Sir."

He closed his eyes and she followed his example. He started saying words she didn't understand, but she echoed them every time he stopped talking. His voice was soothing and she felt so small and safe in their little bubble. His hands were calloused and his fingertips were deformed from writing, but they were reassuring against hers. She didn't know the words that she was speaking, but she thought about her brother and her friends, about the people she loved and hoped the best for them. She wished for forgiveness.

She simply wished.

The words eventually stopped and she opened her eyes. Miles was watching her with a soft look. He let go of her hands and straightened. He extended his hand to her, even if he knew she wouldn't take it, and waited for his commander to get up from the floor. "There, that's all I know."

"Do you think that it will make any difference?"

"No idea, I didn't really use it before," he shrugged, "but at least we tried, right?"

"That, we did."

"I think that's what matters," he muttered.

Miles' mouth curved into another pathetic smile and sadness shadowed his face. He always appeared to be running on endless batteries, but when he looked at her so lost, his high cheeks seemed to sag and his sideburns looked ridiculous, like they belonged to another man. A man who liked to wear colourful clothes and looked like he swam through life without a worry.

This war, even if he didn't fight in it, was going to change him. He was already questioning his role in everything, how he had managed to slide past death for so long. In that moment, right in front of her, Olivier was seeing a man reshaping, his entire being twisting to accommodate something he hasn't been before, but was now. She thought that he was a constant just because she imagined him so, but it was only then that she truthfully realised the real danger.

His crimson eyes regarded her sorrowfully. Miles would have wanted to end their prolonged stare, yet his neck didn't seem to want to turn his head away like his mind was demanding. Her orbs, the ones he thought to be charged with electricity, were glassy and they looked pale, without any depth.

They stood like that, watching each other's eyes, until Olivier made a step forward. She cupped his cheeks and dragged him to her. She pressed their lips together and she kept him there, unmoving, against her.

She broke their touch and looked again in his eyes, just as tired as before. He didn't blink as he moved the hair from her eyes, to see her better. Olivier moved her gaze to the side, embarrassed by herself.

Miles put a hand on the back of her head and pressed her body onto his. He kissed her with abandon, making her feel like she was drowning, falling lower and lower to the bottom of an endless ocean.

The poetry ended when he suddenly dissolved their embrace and took a step back, looking terrified. Olivier grabbed his wrists and jerked him back in front of her. This time, when she caught his lips in a searing kiss, she entangled her hands around his neck, forcing him to lower to her level. Miles chased after her and lifted her up, resting her against his torso, and walked her to the foot of the bed. He lowered her and she kept her iron grip on him, taking him down with her.

Miles rested on top of her and Olivier caged his waist between her legs. Their mouths worked together like they had a mind of their own and their lips departed, tongues and teeth clashing messily. They kept their eyes and ears closed to what was around them, because it was all they could do.

They rid themselves of their heavy boots, letting them fall by the bed. Miles took off the goggles from the top of his head and threw them on the nightstand. Not skipping a beat, Olivier kneaded her fingers in his hair, untying his ponytail. Long hair spilled around his face, hiding their closeness like a curtain. She fisted the locks in her hands and he grabbed her hips, pressing their bodies together.

She moaned as she felt his hardness against her thigh. Demanding, she rubbed herself against him, tightening her grip in his hair. He bit her lips and she groaned, guiding their still fully clothed bodies and driving their needs together. The clothes hindered their movements and she clawed at his uniform. He straightened on top of her and took the coat off of him, along with his shirt. Olivier revealed her naked chest after she has yanked all of her upper clothing, tossing them haphazardly.

For a moment, the dull ache in Miles' heart was forgotten and his mind struggled to focus on anything but pain. Desperate to hold onto something, his hands found her cleavage just as his mouth smacked back onto hers. She welcomed his tongue and let him explore her further, breath coming in haggard puffs from her nostrils and making her dizzy. He blindly squeezed her breasts and twisted his palms over the nipples, trying to hear over the blood thumping in his ears if what he did had any effect.

Olivier shuddered when she found the hem of his pants and pushed her hand past it. She grabbed his erection and his hips bucked up. She squeezed him, assessing the size of his manhood. Inadvertently, her insides churned, making her burn with a passion she didn't know she possessed. She fumbled with her hands and she moaned with her every gesture, feeling lighter than ever.

Mimicking his commander, Miles let one of his hands wander lower down her abdomen as the other pinched the underside of a breast. He felt the scarred tissue under his fingertips, but he didn't look at it, not wanting to let go of their sloppy kiss. It might have seemed disrespectful if he peeked. He followed the lines of her old wounds down to her mound.

He heard her breath hitch when he opened her pants and found her wetness. He managed to lower the trousers with one hand and she kicked the rest with her feet, sending them to the floor along with her undergarments. Her legs opened widely and he breached her gushing cunt with two fingers, not bothering with anything more.

Olivier's eyes snapped open and she gasped. One of her hands darted into his messy hair, allowing him to watch her get undone. He looked at her blue orbs going wild as he pushed his fingers deeper into her. She opened her mouth and no sound came out, besides the strangled breaths she barely managed to exhale. She gazed into his darkening eyes and yanked his hair hard, earning a strained growl.

She pressed herself into his hand, chasing after his moving fingers. Her insides struggled to get him deeper, but with determination, she resisted the urge and slapped his hand away. She caught the skirt of his uniform and dragged it down, along with his pants. Miles swiftly discarded them somewhere behind him and clawed her thigh. Olivier threw a leg over his shoulder and she would have been surprised by her unexpected elasticity if she hadn't felt the head of his cock at her entrance.

He slid into her and she felt her eyes roll, wanting to see the back of her head. She let out a scream and something that wasn't exactly painful shot up her spine. Her nails broke the skin on his back and she pressed them harder, warmth seeping on her fingers. He groaned over her and thrust into her, stuttering to get deeper inside her.

Once his entire length revealed itself in her, he started rutting into her pulsing need like he was hanging off a cliff. Olivier thrashed around on the bed, each of her moans ending in a shriek every time he slammed into her, deeper every time.

His breath came out irregularly as he pushed himself into her, feeling her fluids gushing down his thighs and onto the bedding. He held on her thighs tightly to keep her in one place, since she was twisting around, and he pounded into her with abandon.

Olivier felt terrible pleasure ignite in her stomach and spasms took over her pelvis. She grabbed Miles' neck and kissed him hard, biting the corner of his mouth as she struggled to hold him near. He grunted and pressed her knees together, changing the angle of his desperate thrusts. She screamed in his mouth, the sound feral and making him lose his pace as her walls clenched around him.

She wailed while he continued to pound her through her climax, her mind going empty and the sensation making her dizzy. His thrusts became much shorter and deeper until the moment when he began to withdraw completely. Olivier circled his waist with her arms and pushed him back in, signalling him not to stop. He looked at her and nearly opened his mouth, but she silenced him with another searing kiss and a slap on his arse to continue.

His final thrusts were snappy, swift and just what she needed. Olivier trembled with them, her head reeling with the murmur of her own blood. She felt something hot rushing inside her and she heard him grunt as he came. For a moment, she felt warm and content and she kissed him, so happy she would have burst if he hadn't held her together. But right after that, she sensed Miles shake like he was feeling cold. His skin was radiating with heat but he still shook, and she opened her eyes to see him look even bleaker than before.

Olivier felt her heart crack in many shards and she hugged him tightly, holding him close to her and stroking his hair. Miles simply lied limply in her arms and inhaled her scent, so soothing and wild. He returned her embrace and rolled to his side, and she buried her head in his chest.

They stood like that, next to each other, with their arms entwined, until fatigue claimed them and they fell into unconsciousness.

Morning found them poorly rested and troubled. When Miles finally opened his aching eyes, he noticed Olivier gathering her clothes from the floor. She turned to look at him and he swiftly closed his eyelids, leaving them open enough to make out her form. He couldn't decipher her strange expression and before he knew it, she turned around again.

He took it as his cue to get up and get dressed, since she was doing the same and it was her bedroom. It was only polite.

Miles wanted to at least say a lousy 'Good morning', but Olivier shivered visibly when she heard the bed creak as he moved to sit up. She abruptly looked at him. He hadn't expected any sugary declaration from her, but he hadn't imagined that she would cringe when she saw him. Snappily, she busied herself with cleaning the mugs and rearranging them on the little tray on the table by the desk, ignoring him to the best of her capabilities.

Miles dressed himself as fast as he could, feeling uncomfortable. Something was wrong between them, something that obviously had to do with what transpired between them the previous night, and he couldn't quite put a finger over what it was.

Only when he was fully dressed and he was tying his hair, Armstrong spoke to him. "I believe this won't leave the room." If her voice could have materialised, it would have cut through ice.

"Yes, Sir," he retorted at once, his reply well-oiled after the months of using it in her presence. He felt no joy left in him as he stepped into his boots, grabbed his goggles and walked to the door. His hand reached for the knob and he pressed it, feeling hopeful that he would hear something else from his commander.

He was met with silence, so he stepped out of the room. "I shall prepare the coffee in the office," he said hollowly and closed the door behind him.

As he stirred the powdered coffee in the kettle, dressed in a fresh uniform set after a quick shower, Miles wished he'd stayed on his arse in his own room, because he felt even sadder than the previous day.

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A/N: I would say 'Ta-da', only if the ending wasn't so dry. I hoped you enjoyed this chapter (before I continue – yes, things will get better eventually) and I'd love to hear what you think of it. Thank you kindly for reading!

Until the next time, Happy Holidays everyone! Bye-bye!


	9. 9 – Hard Heads and Heavy Hearts

A/N: Morning! Here is a new chapter, quite a long one, coming with many apologises for being so late to continue this story! I am so sorry for the long absence that was solely due to lack of time, but I sure hope the wait was worth it. Many excuses again and thank you so much for the patience!

Like I've said, long chapter with few mentions, besides that there will be some cursing and adults behaving irrationally. Oh, and the usual disclaimer that I own nothing aside from the plot and original characters. I almost forgot it.

I hope that you will enjoy it, and please, leave me a note to tell me what you think about this chapter or the rest of the story! Thank you very much for reading!

That being said, let's get on with it...

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Chapter 9 – Hard Heads and Heavy Hearts

If Miles had thought for a single moment that things would go back to normal after that one retched night he had spent in the company of his commander – and fine company, it was - he now knew he had been mistaken. Deadly, even! Nothing was normal, zilch, if you'd rather prefer. As to say, everything related to that damned woman was upside down and sideways and Miles' mind was simply all over the place and - sod it! He couldn't even complain coherently inside his head.

His fairly civilised interaction with the oldest Armstrong sister – bordering friendly at times, he could have once dared to say - took such an unexpected turn, that it had become even poorer than when they had first met. Miles tried his best not to look at her and she went to such extraordinary lengths to ignore him. It was one blasted complication to hand each other papers without acknowledging the other's presence. Thankfully, their work wasn't entirely hindered by their awkwardness, but they returned to behaving like they were expecting to be stabbed by the other the instant they let their guards down.

Miles began to grow weary of having to guess once again what the hell Armstrong wanted from him. He turned grim and lost his patience in having people around him for too long. Of course, the rest of the fort believed his attitude to be born out of the atrocities they were hearing about from the war in the East. That should have put his mind at rest, because he had a plausible excuse, however, he found little to no soothing in that misconception, besides the fact that no one came up with the stupid idea to ask him if there was anything wrong. If one asked him that, he has sworn to himself that he would turn them into a portable darts target to amuse himself at leisure.

Sometime later, no more than a few weeks that had felt like the longest eternity there had ever been, the sun seemed to be finally blinking down his alley – because it couldn't be considered shining. But in Miles' experience, some good things, be they merely better than bad, weren't meant to last.

It was that day, during the early hours of the morning, when Armstrong actually grunted some half-arsed salute to him - which was more than he would have expected – that Miles' heart started beating again, hard and steady. For the entire span of the day, he truly believed that all was once again neat and that he could stop glancing behind his back whenever he crossed the hallway.

Evening came and Miles was actually content.

Later that very same day, he had to abandon reading his perfectly good book to open the door to his room, thinking that it was Buccaneer to bother him about some absurdity he had heard about.

Unfortunately, it wasn't him, but Armstrong, who pushed him back inside and - well, let it be simply said that the whole mess of their first time together repeated itself. She'd left immediately after they had finished, leaving Miles staring at the door and asking himself what had just happened.

There went the slimy hope that everything was working properly for him – of course, if one overlooked the unnamed parts that had evidently functioned all too well.

Now, he was no longer content. His book lay forgotten on the window sill and he sat next to it, finding many similarities between him and that discarded object.

After that, the commander and he found each other in the same situation over and over. Always so considerate of his feelings, Armstrong made it her purpose to leave as fast as she could, sometimes even sneaking out of his room while he was pretending to be sleeping, hoping that maybe she would stay just one damned time. He heard the door close behind her every single time. That way, he was repeatedly left alone to question himself if there were any psychological studies about bedding someone just because you hated them. That was what they were doing, after all, and he couldn't possibly explain why he was tormenting himself by opening his door to her every time.

Oh, he recognised her blasted knocking every damned time, alright. He could even tell the amounts of breaths she took in front of his door and the number of steps she had advanced to reach his room. He knew the numbers better than any formulas that he had learnt about during his short-lived life as a Sciences student. It was ridiculous, because this shouldn't happen again and again. Yet, he couldn't stop pressing on the door handle until the lock snapped open. He didn't understand his incapability in front of her and there was no clue within his grasp to link to what misdeeds he had done to bestow such weakness upon his judgment.

He didn't remember doing her any wrongs so bad that they'd grant him such treatment, either. Perhaps they originated in some previous life, but really, how certain could he be of that?

The only good thing that came out of the whole ordeal was that, with his sleeping cut tremendously short, he had more time to carve into the wood for the chess pieces. They were turning out pretty and he couldn't wait to finish them, to apply the lacquer and paint the game board. He had it all figured out and, spending so many nights awake, he had all the time to do it.

He polished chess piece after chess piece, feeling bitterer with every pawn or rook he finished. The original plan had been to have the first game with his commander, a plan that sounded ridiculous at the moment. He cursed himself for that one mistake that made things go astray between them and it all became an exchange of pain, when everything had been just fine. He had to have that brilliant lapse of judgement to go thank her for her kindness in the middle of the night. He could have just said a few nice words and then just scram - not stay after she had told him about the letters. Or he could have just stayed on his arse in his own room and wait for the morning to come and go talk to her.

But no, he had to grow roots in there and destroy the flimsy foundation of trust they had built. Just walk all over it like it meant nothing.

His eyes narrowed. Just as well as he could have refrained from interacting with her at ungodly hours, she could have easily refused him or she could have attributed the deed to grief and tiredness and just shrug it all off. She could have done that, couldn't she? She could have restrained her vengeful re-enacting of that night and not play him like a sock puppet. Was it that hard to just let things go, to simply ignore them and continue living your life without messing with anyone's head?

At some point, he thought that maybe he had a problem of understanding or that he had missed something, but then he started to believe that Armstrong was the one who had a problem. Or more problems. Or, why not, some mental issues. Or maybe it was just him. Or both.

But she definitely had them badly, because who even reacts like that? It must have been pathological and it was making him go bonkers, damn it!

Miles breathed out an aggravated sigh. He let go of the chisel that he was using to shape up the first queen of the set and rubbed his eyes with a wrist. To take his mind off things, he carefully studied the wood, the bottom still rough and the top perfectly smooth.

He had completed the little crown over the round head of the piece and he had carved an imitation of fur around its base. He thought it would look smug with a bit of paint on it, maybe some red checkers, to build a contrast with the light brown of the wood. He could pepper white flakes over the black queen's crown, but he would have to make it first.

And find some pigments and maybe someone to actually know how to paint. He was skilled with shaping things up but he wasn't any good with a brush. His hands, so steady on a pen, trembled when he had to make a line with paint. He had mastered the fine art of painting his relatives' fences, mind him, but that didn't involve any notable skills or talents.

He turned the unfinished queen in his palm and thought of the drawings he saw on the Major General's walls. There were many portrays of various people of all colours and expressions - smiling, frowning or talking - and she had sketched a few landscapes that must have left some impression on her. Perhaps he could have asked her to paint the pieces and the board, on which he wanted to engrave curved vines and tiny blossoms, but well... he couldn't possibly ask her that, given... things. Who knew what cataclysm it would drive out of her.

He placed the piece on his desk and sighed again, something he had started to do way too often lately. Once again, his mind pushed his peculiar situation to the surface, and this time, he argued that he wasn't the one who was behaving strangely, but her. He was aware that it was equally his fault. However, out of sheer self-preservation, he was solely blaming her.

His more sensible reasoning returned to him, but shyly. He knew that she wasn't the easiest to deal with, but he wouldn't have expected that he could awake such behaviour in her. He didn't understand what she was getting from their... whatever they did, because he didn't know what to call it. They weren't exactly sleeping together, making love was more like making hate and they have perfected the 'feeling like tossed scum after getting laid' in more ways than one. He had never suspected that an act that was supposed to make someone feel at least better could ever become such a dissatisfying experience.

It was a bit sad.

And he didn't believe he was the only one who thought the same. Each and every day, the woman's face turned sterner until it appeared to be blank. Slowly, it became devoid of any line. It was hard to picture her not staring into nothingness or having her frame sagged down like heavy weights were burdening her.

She was not the same person that used to amaze him every time he saw her, with her imposing resplendence and dangerous glance.

It took great efforts to recall the little chats they had before, when she looked like herself. It was like he was seeing a different being. Every time they talked together, she used to brighten up with intrinsic light. He would merely wish her a good day before they opened the office and she would start glowing like some giddy teenager who was finally being noticed by the most appreciated boy in the neighbourhood. Well, that was a bit of an exaggeration, though it still was a lot, coming from her. Even when she growled her snappy reply, it seemed almost reverent – again, for her standards.

After work, when they occasionally gathered with the guys for drinks, she would ask him things about himself, unimportant as they were, to which he replied without much thought given. She keenly listened to him, making him talk some more with awkward nudges. Then they would start chatting about all sorts of interesting matters that he had found absolutely fascinating and she would offer her opinion, say her own curiosities and wait for his reflections on them.

And she would actually consider what he babbled about, which was something that she seldom did to anyone else.

That was the most frustrating bit. In her maladjusted way, Armstrong had actually opened up to him. He had been led to believe that there was something resembling a friendship between them. He didn't delusion himself that she had fully befriended him, but it was nice to think that someone who outranked him from afar found him worthy enough for a more private conversation. Rarely did someone high-positioned in the military want something to do with the underlings and he felt quite proud of himself.

And then, there were those tiny aspects that he had noted at her and, most surprisingly, at himself. The way she always smiled in her mug in the morning, when she drank the coffee that awaited her in the office. The coffee he always rushed to make before she arrived. She must have thought he wouldn't notice how content she was when she took the first swig of the hot beverage, but he had found a way to see it. Darn, if that didn't make him feel good.

Miles honestly missed that simple thing they used to have. He missed seeing her so at ease, seating next to him on the couch and pushing the carriage of the typewriter with her boot every time he finished a row. The way she changed Tina's ink and how she filled their cups when they emptied. Or how she nervously pulled her hair behind her ear when they were talking on the rooftops in the evenings, when she thought she couldn't be seen by him.

And then she became someone who couldn't meet his eyes without a look of disdain in them and a scorn trembling on her lips. He couldn't believe that she was still the same person who sewed his ranks to his shoulders, binding the stitches ever so carefully.

The one who offered him the most thoughtful gift for his birthday.

The one who spared his life.

He pressed his forehead to the tabletop and let out an embittered suspire. He didn't understand her. He thought that he did, but he had never actually had the real image of her.

But, at last, Miles understood himself. It brought him little joy, however.

He didn't resent her, like she did. He never had and he wasn't sure he was capable of such a feeling directed to her. Between a smile and a snort, he had actually fallen for her, with all her little nothings that meant the world to him.

What he thought was real.

He mistook her gestures for something different than they were, apparently. It hurt to realise that he was in love with someone who made it their reason to wake up in the morning to make him feel miserable and unwanted, when he had honestly believed that she cared in some way.

So much for not misleading himself.

Miles thumped his head on the desk, and banged it again for good measure. "Ah, sod it," he grunted and turned the table lamp off. That was his limit. He took his coat and exited the room.

He walked to the rooftops, his covered eyes looking straight ahead. If he would have paid a little more mind to his surroundings, he would have caught Buccaneer passing by.

The newly promoted Captain wanted to salute his friend, but Miles rushed past him. Intrigued, Buccaneer followed him to his destination.

Cautiously, Buccaneer climbed up the staircase to one of the many vantage points on top of the fort. He ducked behind a vent and watched the Major light a cigarette that seemed to have appeared out of thin air. Miles sat on the edge of the building and leaned on his back, looking up at the darkening sky.

Buccaneer didn't remember seeing Miles looking too good lately. He hadn't joined their poker games in a long time and he could count on one hand the times when he smiled, not to mention laugh. He wasn't what one would consider fine, even if he acted as if he was right as rain.

And Miles never, ever smoked alone, on the rare occasions that he did. He said it was useless if you didn't have someone to blow the smoke at.

When he heard Miles sigh, he decided that the time has come to confront his friend and give him a good smack over the head for behaving like a distressed princess. "Hey, Major!" he boomed and the startled Ishbalan turned his head to look at him.

"Hello, Buc," he stuttered and waved. "What's up?"

"What's up? The sky's up, mate, I thought you knew that."

Miles snorted and bent his back in a sitting position. He beckoned him to seat next to him and Buccaneer all but jumped at his side.

"What's with you, mate?" Buccaneer asked. "What are you doing here, sighing like a maiden who's been left by the prince?"

Miles chuckled. "I am just taking some air."

"While you're smoking? What kind of air are you taking, Miles?" Buccaneer nudged him with his elbow. "Where did you even get those things? I've never seen you buying any smokes."

"That's because I never do," Miles retorted. "I always take from the others. I have never bought a pack of cigarettes for myself in my entire life."

"Pff, you are such a cheap strumpet at times, my friend."

"I am most certainly not," Miles made indignantly. If only Buccaneer knew how close to home his words hit, he'd probably laugh. "I am always returning the favour in some way. I am the only one who is buying the drinks when we gather after work, for example."

"Used to buy. You haven't joined us lately."

"I still buy them, I am the one who is ordering them and paying for them."

Buccaneer made an undignified noise. "Yet you still didn't show up in the past, what, month! Honestly, what is it with you?"

"Nothing," Miles said noncommittally. "Why are you asking?"

"Ah, don't give me that bullshit, mate! I have a sister and I've seen all sorts of personality crises. I know one when I see it."

"Are you comparing me to your sister? I am flattered," Miles jested lamely and Buccaneer punched him playfully.

"Sure, princess, whatever you want. So, what's the upsetting matter?"

"It is all breezy, don't fret. I've been working on the chess set, it is a work of detail, you know? I don't posses that much time to do my job and carve the wood, I have to do what I am paid for first."

"Ah, pity," the Captain made. "Is it coming up all right? Do you still need help with the board?"

"It's fine, I haven't slept well one night and I've finished it then. But thank you, anyway."

Buccaneer shrugged. "No sweat, mate. By the way, since you're so nice to buy us booze and not drink any of it, why don't you come tonight to the Doc's storage room? We're playing blackjack."

"And you are aching to lose some money, I get it, I get it." He smiled. "Sure thing, I shall be there."

"We're not playing on money if you're coming, I hope you know that! We're playing on candy."

"Then make sure you have lots of lollipops, I'd like some tonight with my tea," Miles said and his easy smile turned into a wicked grin.

Buccaneer exploded in laughter by his side and patted him on the shoulder. "That's the spirit, mate!" he exclaimed in that thundering voice of his, returning the merriment of his superior.

XXXXX

As promised, Miles showed up at the Doc's storage room, where Buccaneer, Henschel, Neil, the Doctor and Karley were already waiting for him. They all cheered when they saw him, like they haven't seen him in ages, and Redmyre, once he got out of his shift and joined them, bowed in comical reverences in front of the Major and praised his sight.

It was quite late when they've finally decked all the cards and put them back in their package. Miles snuggled better in his colourful robe and opened one of the lollipops he had earned that night. He popped it in his mouth and put the wrapping in one of his pockets.

He wasn't as good at blackjack as he was at poker, but he still gathered more candies than the rest. His prey rested in his pockets and jingled while he walked. The fur around his collar brushed on his cheeks and he thought fondly of his Grandmother, who had dyed the cloth for most of his ridiculous robes and always laughed when she heard what colours he wanted her to combine.

He chewed on the rest of the candy and discarded the stick into his pocket. He felt quite cheerful, perhaps because he had drank enough to make him buoyant and he had spent some quality time with the guys – and the very much female Doctor, he reminded himself, but she was one of the 'guys', too. His loose hair smelled of Neil's newest – and less foul than usual - innovation with tobacco and his head floated a bit, but all in all, he felt like he was walking on a cloud.

That was most likely the reason why he thought it a stroke of genius to pay a visit of courtesy to his commander. They have been playing that stupid game of who broke down first for too long and it was high time they talked.

Their behaviour towards one another was getting out of hand. He didn't get anything pleasant out of the affair and he was sure she wasn't either. In time, he was certain that it would affect their professional relationship. If even Buccaneer observed that something was wrong - and he was the kind who didn't see the forest unless he was being pointed at it - then their situation was starting to get seriously out of control.

He lifted his goggles on top of his head, the loose hair that has fallen on his forehead slicking back. Taking a deep breath, Miles knocked on the Major General's door. After the night when he'd found out about his family's situation, he hadn't been there even once. He was the one with the opened doors, not her.

After some instants, she opened the door. She didn't look in the slightest pleased to see him. "What do you want, Major?" she asked him, without making room for him to enter.

Miles smiled kindly at her, but he felt like he'd gladly punch a wall. "May I come in?" he asked politely. He wasn't there to argue, he just wanted to clarify things, even if she didn't seem to want anything to do with him right then.

She eventually moved aside and he entered, closing the door behind him. Armstrong retreated to the back of the room, disappearing from his sight. She reappeared with her hands on her hips. "Make your case, Major," she ordered coldly.

He blinked awe-stricken, souring under her hostility. Not even a second later, she started to tap on the floor with her foot. "Look, I am in no mood for you tonight, so, if you don't have anything to say, you know where the door is."

"I beg your pardon?"

"You've heard me, Major, surely you're not deaf," she said impatiently. "I don't want you right now, so leave."

Her lack of expression betrayed nothing and for a moment, Miles didn't register what she had said. His ego was still trying to keep his perfectly condescending air in check. One of Olivier's eyebrows lifted and she motioned for the door with a nudge of her head, and that was when the 'keeping in check' stopped and Miles' mouth started to work by itself.

"I cannot believe what I am hearing," he made expansively, pronouncing the words very clearly. "You seriously think that I would only come to see you for-"

"Why, obviously," she cut him off, knowing very well what he was talking about. "For what else?"

"To... talk?" he offered. She snorted, as if she knew better.

Miles frowned and took a step forward. He must have regarded her rather menacingly if she actually flinched, or maybe he despised him just that much. Nonetheless, she regained her cool expression in no time.

"What is wrong with you?" he asked her, losing his temper faster than he would have been expected. He was a relatively benign speaker in the hardest situations, but his fiery character was surfacing when he was angry. "Why are you treating me like this?" he burst. "Have I wronged you in some way to have to bend to your whims? Am I just a - what, a toy you've got at convenience?"

Armstrong took a defensive stance, like she was daring him to come closer if he wanted to lose his head. Miles' eyes narrowed. "Ah. Good to know, then," he commented.

"You could have said no," she replied, voice levelled, adding a speck of salt over the wound.

"I could have said no," he repeated in disbelief. "I, as in me. I am the one who could have said no?"

She looked positively serene, but inside, she felt like something was dying. "Well, of course! I didn't notice you very reluctant when you were fucking me, so I don't think you should be raising any pretentions."

"I- what?! I am sorry, but I don't think I understand. I believed that it was an act of shared-"

"No," she cut him off, uninterested in what he had thought they shared. "It was an act of convenience."

The man's mouth remained half opened, struck. "Do I actually mean that little to you?"

"Yes," she answered without skipping a beat.

Miles felt the ground shift under his feet. "I thought-"

"Wrongly, it seems," Armstrong spoke, not wanting to hear any of it. She clenched her fists, because she was starting to tremble.

Miles, of course, didn't see that. Focusing on her face, his expression all but dropped. His brows knitted. "You are a cruel woman, you know. What do you earn from this, hm? From making fun of me? I thought that there was a bit of respect between us, that we were supposed to be supporting each other, be partners, equ-"

"We are not equals, if that's what you meant to say," she interjected coolly, her nails cutting into the tender skin of her palms. "Do not forget your place, Major."

"Ah, my bad, then!" He let out a crude chuckle. He had built up a plan how to approach her on his way and he was definitely not going to follow it, not when she was treating him so.

"You know what, General?" he spoke, starting to care less and less if his words were going to get him shot of not. It wasn't the time for pleasantries anymore. "You've got me wondering a while ago, but now, I have my answer. There is no surprise why you are always alone and no one asks you how you are faring. At first, I thought people didn't get you, that you are the sort who knows nothing about how to express themselves. I believed that you had a bit of compassion, but you don't have any at all. I thought that you've helped me with my situation because you cared or at least held some regard over me, but you don't give a shit about me. About any of us. All lowlifes, hm? What am I to you, some extinct animal? That's why you've helped me? From pity? Pf, how merciful of you, Goddess!" he said absolutely infuriated, things escalating far too rapidly.

He made another step forward, clenching his fists. She stood still, defying, almost unimpressed by his display. "Fuck you, Armstrong," he spat angrily. "You deserve what you have, that- that emptiness in you! You bloody deserve it all."

Armstrong lost it and slapped him hard. "Don't you dare talk to me like that, you piece of shit! You owe me, do you hear me?"

"I think I've paid my debts in full," Miles said, pointing a finger at her. It was hard not to return the violence. "I've had enough of this. You can search for another assistant, I am not taking any more of this. Believe it or not, I do deserve a bit of respect, despite that I can't get to your nose even if I climb on a ladder!" He retracted his hand and pressed it to his chest. "I am a human being, even if the state tries very hard to show that my kind isn't, and I won't tolerate your attitude. My other commanders didn't like me, but at least they didn't undermine me or my intellect."

"I have not done that," she argued, trying to stay rational.

"Mm, really. And that's why I became the hunk of meat, because I'm very well considered. Spare me of the bullshit." He made a motion to leave, but stopped abruptly, realising he had something more to add. "You know, you are actually right about something. You really don't deserve the respect everyone has for you."

Armstrong took a deep breath, fighting very hard not to lash out. They were both people hardened by violence and gore, they had the rage of them in their veins, and him, so much more than her. If she made another attack, she was certain that he would not hesitate to paint the walls with her blood. She pressed her nails back into the wounds that she has carved inside her palms, fighting to keep herself in check. "If you leave this place, you do realise that you will be hunted down and killed," she said flatly, overlooking the last part of his speech.

"My, but don't you worry about me, Majesty! I am a vermin to you, right? Vermin tend to survive," he boasted. "You needn't worry."

Her fingers itched as she clenched them harder, prepared to smack him again. "You will stay here and do your bloody job."

"Oh, and why?"

"Because I say so, damn it!" she raged, staying cool becoming unbearable. "I am your commanding officer, you do as I say!"

"Yet you are not a slave owner, nor am I a slave. I will stay for as long as it takes you to find another helping hand, but I am not taking your whims up again. I have had more than enough of this."

"You must be very proud of yourself," she bit back, her face getting crimson with anger, finally realising that she was going to lose him for good after this, not only as a friend, but also as a subordinate. "Instead of running your stupid mouth, you should be thankful that I didn't throw you to the dogs!" She stumped a foot on the floor. "You, piece of scum, should fucking thank me on your bloody knees for taking pity of your sorry arse and just play the fucking part! You can't be that much of an idiot to have mistaken this for what it wasn't!" Armstrong sputtered, glowering at him.

Miles' face contorted in a shocked expression. He had never heard her talk so. He swallowed dryly, the look in her eyes hitting him harder than her insults. "It seems that I have," he sighed, sounding defeated. His shoulders slumped and he was close to opening his mouth, to utter another word, but he shook his head. It wasn't worth it, plain and simple, because she only seemed to be capable of vulgarities and little to no emotion. "As much as I am idiot, as you say, you are fool. And so am I. To think that I actually came here in peace, wanting to share some sincerity! You wouldn't understand it even if I spelled it out." Sorrow washed over him, having to admit to himself the mistake of his feelings yet again. "You have no heart, how could you possibly understand?"

"Understand what?"

"That I love you!" Miles cried out abruptly, voice hoarse. "I love you and I swear on Ishbala's eternal soul that now, I don't even know why! You have a horrible character and you don't give a damn about anyone besides yourself, but I still fell for you! I fell for what I believed you were, because I really thought that I saw something else in you, something that I thought was beautiful, but you are ugly beyond compare, Armstrong. There isn't anything beautiful in you, nothing at all! You are as hideous as you are cruel!"

Olivier always took news, no matter how bad, with a look of indifference. Then, in that moment, was the first time when she couldn't control her expression. Her infallible mask fell, leaving her face twisted in shock. She opened her mouth and a strangled sound came out. "I-"

"I honestly don't want to hear it," Miles snapped in wroth and raised his hand to stop her from talking. He wasn't violent by nature, or so he tried to tell himself, but he was sure that, if he heard her saying another word, he would plant her head straight into the wall. "I don't want to hear what you have to say. I don't give a damn what you think about me, not now or ever. You can think whatever the fuck you want about me, but I don't want to hear your shit anymore. I'm done with this and especially with you," he said and turned abruptly, finally leaving. He slammed the door when he got out, so powerfully that a piece of plaster around the frame fell off.

Olivier let out a shaky sob and covered her face with her fists, hitting herself squarely. She crumpled to the floor, falling to her knees. She gathered them within her arms and she sniffed pathetically, looking at the door. She started trembling with the fear she has been bottling in her during the past few weeks and she didn't see anything but red.

Again, she was driving people away.

"Idiot, stupid idiot," she hissed and thumped a fist into her forehead. "Fuck, what have I done...," she murmured, unable to avert her gaze from the closed door. She bit her lips hard, but that wouldn't erase any of the words she said but didn't mean.

XXXXX

The next morning, Miles stormed into the office, grabbed his work for the day and went straight to the telecommunications room. Karley, who was peacefully drinking his coffee, nearly spilled his mug on the radar when the Major entered.

The rest of the men operating the radios froze, but they relaxed when they saw Miles. He smiled at them, forced by the circumstance to appear professional. So, he would smile away his problems until they no longer existed, because his facial muscles were used to making himself likable and light. He was damn good at that, he thought in anger and felt a vein spasm inside his right temple. He inhaled deeply, his chest puffing out, and gave his best smile.

Karley looked quizzically at him but, to his own credit, didn't comment anything.

"Carlitta!" Miles greeted cheerfully, using the man's nickname to prove that he was in the best spirits possible, "I have got some business with you, haven't I?" he asked Karley, who nodded reluctantly. "Any news on the shipment from Aerugo?"

"Well, yes, but how to put it... They're not exactly agreeing to our terms," Karley replied embarrassedly. "We've tried, man, but it's not working! Henschel's done everything he could, but nothing!"

"Then we will try harder, won't we? Make me a line, Karley, I think it's time I spoke to them."

They were supposed to get a shipment of certain pieces for the newest tank project and they were supposed to get them from some partners in Aerugo, but they weren't exactly cooperating at the moment. They were demanding too much from the fort, things that they knew their Amestrian contractors didn't have. Miles thought that they should find another supplier, closer to Briggs, but there seemed to be no one that fitted their needs.

To his great surprise, once the resisting person of contact on the other line heard Miles talk to them in Aerugian, the deal turned very simple. They wouldn't only get what parts they wanted, they would get them cheaper than they were before.

Miles opened his arms and the guys in the office applauded cheerily. "Ta-da!" he said with a huge grin. "All done."

Henschel, who appeared sometime during his phone call, looked impressed. "I say, you are good around the man's house."

Miles smiled and waved the cigarette he has nicked from Redmyre the other day. He was propped up on a desk and held the telephone on his lap. He put it aside and crossed his legs. "Okay, tell me who else gave you a hard time. This conversation got me in the mood to argue with someone."

By the end of the day, Miles solved problems over the phone. He was surprised how many were reluctant to do business with Briggs, or the Amestrian army in general. He made good use of the languages he knew, something he reminded himself to thank his mother for. She was a linguist and she taught various languages at the University. He had learnt them from her written lectures.

There was great power in words, he thought, and as usual, using the other party's mother tongue smoothed things over. It showed that you were the real deal and that they would not fuck with you for free.

He was gleeful as he thought of the many things he had accomplished that day. He had not only done his part of the job, but he had run some really important errands that would have compromised many of their projects.

Buccaneer hung his arm around his shoulders. "Mate, you are a genius," he said and kissed him on top of his head. "That white windfall on your head hides some brain."

"Bitch, let go," Miles faked annoyance and elbowed his friend. "I am just good like that."

"Pff, and modest."

"Of course. What else?"

Buccaneer chuckled soulfully. "You have so many qualities, you make me feel things in... places. Watch it so I don't jump on you, mate."

"Mhm, that's tempting, Buc," Miles teased, smiling broadly. Henschel appeared by their side to follow them to the mess hall for dinner. He made a scandalised sound as he listened to the two men talking nonsense again.

"Get a room, for God's sake!" he made and lifted his hands.

The doctor jumped on his back, startling the devil out of Henschel, and started laughing madly. "Whaaaat, Henscheeeel," she gurgled, "are you jealous?"

Redmyre appeared behind her and slapped her bottom hard. She dismounted Henschel's back and started running after the red haired man, shouting profanities after him.

"And dear boys and girls, that is a display of mature behaviour," Karley said sagely and patted Miles lightly on the arm. The Ishbalan to look at the dark haired officer. "Major, we have to celebrate your little wonders tonight. It's on me! I've, ahem, 'detoured' this killer rum and we have to get rid of it. A crate of the blasted concoction, no less!"

Miles smiled and shook his head. "We'll have to drown them pirates another time, forgive me," he said apologetically.

"Oh, come on!" Redmyre yelled as he returned to the small group. His face was just as red as his hair. "But it has your name on it!"

"And the work I have in the office has my name on it, too," Miles retorted. "Sorry, but I promise we'll have it slaughtered another day."

"Another day soon, by the doctor's orders," the fort's physician echoed. She glared at Redmyre, who raised his hands defensively.

"You've got a deal, Doc," Miles vowed and squeezed her arm, grinning broadly.

XXXXX

Olivier Armstrong brushed her long hair, sitting on the bed, cross-legged. She moved the hairbrush languidly, absently, like she wasn't even aware that she was using it. Her wrist was flexing due to pure intuition, on its own accord, without any clear command from its owner.

The swishing sound of the bristles though her locks lulled her into oblivion and she lost the focus on the wall that she was staring at. She shuddered when she blinked for the first time in what felt like an eternity. Her eyes hurt when the lids closed over them, feeling dry, but she forced herself to wink a few times to calm the burning sting.

Her hand stopped, fingers clutching the handle of the brush, and she tilted her head to the side. She looked down at the white hair tie that she has forgotten to give Miles back, carefully placed on top of her pillow, and exhaled slowly.

Olivier carelessly let go of the hairbrush and changed into some black riding pants and an equally black tank top. She regarded herself in the mirror, looking like she was about to attend to a funeral.

She stepped closer to the looking glass and lifted her hand to cup its frame. She studied her only visible cheek, round and a little too pale, and how the light undulated on it. Her hair was shining and it appeared softer than it was, floating in ample rivulets towards her shoulders and then lower, to her waist. She pushed it behind her ears, baring all of her face. She followed the crease between one of her cheeks and her nose and landed on her lips, plump and without any force in them. They were forming a scowl and she wasn't even meaning it.

The slight lines around her mouth were telling the sad story of someone who didn't smile often. They were there, results of chiding rather than laughing, and she wanted to see them no longer. She rubbed at them with her fingertips, but they didn't leave her skin. They were still there, persistent and ugly.

Olivier stopped and tried to smile, but it was ludicrous. Her muscles twitched when she forced them to rise. She frowned, making the image look more like herself, and then her brows knitted together, giving herself the front that she has accustomed everyone with. It was indeed one that held many horrors.

She looked straight into her eyes, clear of the hair that always fell like a curtain over them. Her eyebrows were lopsided and they were leading to heavy lids, hiding blue orbs that were rimmed with red. They were always framed in crimson, never getting enough rest. Her fingers slipped up to touch the cold surface of the mirror and it all seemed to contort under the tips.

Her lips parted in a gasps, realising how unsightly she was, features too large for someone with such a little heart. Trembling with fear of what she was about to discover, she roamed her eyes over the entirety of her uncovered face, and there was nothing that she found that was pleasant. Her mouth had luscious lines, but it looked horrendous on her. Her nose trailed down in a beautiful ridge, but it was preposterous on her. Her cheeks held alluring fullness, yet they made her appear rowdy. And her eyes... they had the colour of the most wonderfully clear skies, and they were as dead and cold as a corpse.

Right then, she could barely stand the sight of herself. She hastily threw her fringe over her face, recognising herself, the same rigid woman that everyone cowered away from. That was familiar, and that was safe.

She reached for the reflection of her only bare cheek. She stroked the image gently, picturing her fingers belonged to someone else. The mirror was cool and she wondered if she felt just the same to the touch. However, she didn't dare to touch her own flesh, afraid that she'd find the answer to her question.

That she was just as cold as the silver in the mirror that captured her face.

It was laughable how she has managed to deceive someone to think that she was somehow beautiful.

"Tch, what a blind fool," she told herself, out loud.

Olivier clenched her jaw and abandoned the looking glass on the wall. She gathered her hair in a loose bun, securing it at the back of her head with the white tie. She knotted it and made sure it held her locks in place.

She picked up a beat up notebook, wanting to draw something. After she retook her former spot on the bed, she placed it on her lap and opened at the page that she has last used.

It was an unfinished sketch of the one that has been plaguing her for a while. The eyes weren't fully outlined yet and the chin was a blurry mess, but in those crude lines, she could see it all.

She saw him.

She turned to the previous page, at a finished drawing of a charcoal Miles, smiling so widely that the corners of his mouth might have reached his ears. It was the first true smile he had ever given her and it remained scarred into her mind. It burned her so hotly that she had to get it out of her, to put it on the paper in hope that she might forget it, somewhere it wouldn't hurt her with its brilliance anymore. Looking at it now, she felt childish.

It still pained her, in the same places.

She held the pencil between her fingers, but she didn't move her hand. She didn't want to turn to another page, where she would find something that would shake her even more. She knew what followed and there was no use for that. She discarded both the pencil and the notebook. That little brown book was her bit of refuge from the world she has built around her, a pocket in her sterile reality.

She bit her lips, hard, and she breathed in. She refused to think of what she had done, of the way she had made someone that she didn't think capable of ever being angry so wroth with her.

If there was something that she had immediately assumed to be a constant, it was Miles' ready smile when he was talking to her. Even in the most solemn situations, when his features had less expressivity than a rock, he still succeeded to appear like he was about to sketch the smirk of the century and infest the air with his mirth.

That man had so much life in him. He actually lived every second of his life, with good and bad. His heart didn't pump his blood in vain. He was radiating with energy and with all the wonderful things he wanted to say and had too few words to describe. There weren't enough letters in their language to fully form the remarkable marvel that he could bring into a world that was so bleak and lifeless.

And he had thought that she was beautiful, she repeated in her head. Beautiful. That she could be loved. The only ones who still tried to give her a chance and struggled to associate that emotion with her were her parents and perhaps her sisters and brother, though it was a simple bond of shared blood and denial. She hasn't showed any affection to them in many years, even if she has never lost it. Perhaps they knew it, the little dark secret in her heart, but...

But Miles had no such association to her. He wasn't her family, he had only known her for a few months and she hadn't treated him any better than any of her subordinates. Yet, he seemed to have found something in her, something that she didn't understand what it was, and held tightly on it.

She wondered what it was. What mocked him so completely that he had fallen for her. It was perhaps too late to wound herself with more inquires, but she couldn't stop. She had already brought the discontent of the one who looked at her differently upon herself. She was the only one to blame for that, so she shouldn't be tormenting that poor soul anymore. He had enough on his plate as it was, with all the uncertainty that he had to go through every day.

He needed someone to rely on, and she was the most unreliable person at the moment. At least, to him. She, faced with her struggles and fear, wasn't able to offer anything. He should leave him to himself.

However, she just couldn't let it all go. She was an opportunist, she loathed to part from the best deals. That was how she has made a name for herself, by taking all the chances that she could get and play them in her favour. She prided herself in being a just person even when what she was doing wasn't fair. She never had the time to think of those slips. They were a way to get by.

Once she reached her achievements, she lived by the rules of morality again. What she did to climb up to them was another thing.

It was hard to allow feelings get in the way. They clouded the judgement, they made the individual weak and emotional. Incapable to rule, to command. And once she felt that strange tingling within herself, she walked over it. She hid it away, where it was inaccessible, until she forgot about it.

Yet, that time, it had been too hard. It was impossible not to notice that man who was the equivalent of a peacock during the mating season in a room full of pigeons. Miles simply stood out. Or maybe just to her, because she has never seen a man quite like him.

He kept on searching for new challenges to direct towards her and Olivier found herself ready to respond with some of her own. He wasted so much of his time trying to anticipate what she might need – funnily, he hasn't let her down even once. He listened to her and, well, he made her want to talk. He made her want to listen to another soul blabbing about whatever, which wasn't something that she would normally do. She didn't have energy to spare for useless acts, but she learnt that she didn't mind spending long moments focusing on his voice.

It was a strange thing, but she enjoyed his company and his mannerism, his demeanour. He was like a breath of fresh air, so new and different. He was the perfect contrast to her, so white when she was pitch black.

Or was. She noticed, of course she did – he didn't look as happy as he used to. He didn't smile as much. He didn't joke and he didn't make people laugh. He wasn't that easy going anymore.

No.

He no longer looked at her with happiness. Her. He didn't smile when he saw her. Still her. He didn't push his stupid jokes on her, robbing her of barely restrained chuckles. Always just her.

He was no longer comfortable around her, like he used to be.

Miles had changed, and that night when she first touched him, she thought it was the war. Now, on her lonely bed, she knew it had been her.

He had been mourning, that night, but he preferred to focus on her insecurities. He tried to make her forget her guilt and the fear of losing her brother, her friends. He didn't even want to talk about his loss, he told her about it only when she asked him. Miles didn't have to do that, yet he did it. Because he cared.

He hadn't been grieving only for his loved ones, but for hers, too. He, so selflessly, took her sufferance upon himself and made it his own. Because he cared.

And she cared, too, but she was terrified of that. She could handle a touch from obligation, but one from want? One from love? It was unheard of.

Olivier Armstrong was a powerful woman and intelligent, it was known. She wasn't one to back away from the danger. Under the matters that were hitting too close to the heart, however, she was crumbling like the lowliest of cowards.

She moved the notebook aside on the nightstand and got up from the bed. She had to beat the iron while it was still hot, as they said, and so she picked up her blue robe and exited the room.

She had absolutely no idea how to proceed, but she still dutifully locked the door and set her course down the hallway. Her hands found their way inside her pockets and she shivered, thinking of what she was supposed to do next.

Of what she had done before.

Of how she felt.

She was so angry with herself. More like furious. It was all replaying in her head, all the reflections she had in her room. With her perfect display of disinterest, she had hurt that one single person who deserved it the least. She wanted to scream about what an idiot she could be, but she didn't have any force left in her. After they had crumbled together that night, she felt such panic within that she could barely contain it.

That was what it had been. Panic. Selfish and ugly.

Soon after, she landed in a loop in which she tried to convince herself that nothing really mattered, that she was still the same, but she has forgotten that their dance had two dancers. She had though only of herself, guarding herself like she was a treasure, and he left her with little to nothing when he slammed the door into her face. For she had the gold, but it wasn't hers.

All that she had left was the sting in her fingertips where they have touched his face in her excess of zeal, hitting him for no reason. When she thought of that, she felt hollow on the inside. It was dark in there, and it was hideous.

She has lost a lot of her initial determination as she traversed the corridors, the distance to her destination feeling countries away. She didn't even have to go to another level, it was practically in the neighbouring hallway, but her body was tired with the effort of climbing a mountain.

Her feet felt heavier than ever when she faced the doorframe she has passed through so many times already, and for the wrong reasons.

She raised her hand and her first movement was shy. She shook herself, gathering all of her strength and looked ahead. She could do it.

She knocked again, steadily.

Olivier heard some noise from the other side and then, some grumbling. The door opened abruptly and Miles all but stumbled and fell over her.

"Ah, damn it!" he cursed as he disentangled a towel from around his feet. He held a sharp razor in his hand, unconsciously pointed at her while he kicked the wet towel from around his ankles.

He looked up to see who called at his door and he froze. Olivier watched him processing the information and looking a bit like he tried to change her person with absolutely anyone else in the fort.

Having to accept the reality, Miles finally realised that he was pointing a blade at his commander and immediately lowered it. "Pardon me, Sir," he made apologetically and kept it in mind to look elsewhere, virtually anywhere but at her. "Can I help you?" he asked, voice perfectly neutral.

In the absurdity of the moment, Olivier observed just how comical he looked. His shoulders were covered in a fluffy towel and he wore an untied canary yellow bathrobe over a pink shirt. His face was covered by white shaving foam, making him look like a certified Grandpa way into his retirement after a life of excitement.

He seemed to know what he resembled, too, and he shifted from one leg to the other. She ended his misery soon, understanding how uncomfortable he must have felt. She wasn't there to humiliate him, after all, but she was surely a natural at doing it. "Do you mind if I come in?"

Miles was certain that if he talked, he would reply with a resounding 'yes', and so, he didn't open his mouth. She was a superior officer first and foremost and he had upset enough of them that year. He stepped aside and allowed her to get in.

"Please excuse me, Sir, so I can wipe this thing off," he said coolly. "I don't usually shave in the evening, but I thought I could sleep a bit more in the morning." He realised that he was sharing too much and stopped rambling. "Anyway, excuse me," he said and made to retreat to the bathroom.

Olivier touched his wrist and he retracted his hand like her skin burnt. Miles' eyes darted to her fingers, regarding them like they were something unholy. "No," she said hoarsely, hurt by how he flinched. She cleared her throat, hating how she sounded. "You don't have to. Let me help you," she said, her little intervention sounding more like a demand than a friendly offer, and extended her hand, pointing to the razor that he still held tightly.

Miles eyed her with confusion, attempting to grasp what game she was playing at. Armstrong, having her face devoid of any hints, motioned again with her hand and he finally gave her the shaving tool. "Please, sit," she said and went to retrieve a small basin she had once seen in the bathroom. She filled it with a bit of hot water and took another towel with her along with the bottle of alcohol from the sink.

The quarter Ishbalan took a seat on a chair and watched her like he was waiting for her to slit his throat and bury him in the back of the garden. Olivier put what she has brought on the desk and seated across from him.

Behind his red eyes, there was a great war being fought. She could see it clearly as she slowly approached her hand to his face. She massaged the foam over his cheeks, making sure it was still pliable, and lifted the razor. She moved it gently, careful not to break his skin, and she cut through the white layer.

Miles chanced a glance at her face, her eyes fully focused at her self-imposed task. He didn't know what to believe, but he held still and hoped she wouldn't accidentally cut his sideburns. That was the only thing he tried to keep going inside his head, struggling not to take note of how badly he wanted not to be in the same room as her. The jest was going to be on him once more, as he could bet on everything that he owned and held dear that she came simply to prod at his sensible cords and play a cruel joke on him, just to see him suffer some more for his naivety. It was hard to believe otherwise.

Olivier passed by the arched facial hair, mindful not to disturb the contour. She let out a breathy chuckle and one of Miles' eyebrows raised on his forehead. "I was just thinking that you look like my Grandfather with all this foam on your face," she explained in attempt to lighten the mood.

To her surprise, Miles chuckled lowly, making the blade vibrate on his neck. It was so strange that he still found the strength to laugh in her presence. "If that's so, I think your Grandmother forgot to tell him something, if their Granddaughter turned out so white," he commented, aiming to sound airy. His deep desire to run away from her took deep roots into the pit of his stomach, finding it very hard to look at her.

Olivier's lips quirked a bit. "Stop talking or I might cut you," she said and steadied his chin, but her voice was mirthful.

The razor slid over his coated cheeks, the screeching sound of the blade across his skin low and sharp. She cleaned the knife and started the precise movement again, repeating the process until she uncovered all of his face.

He took the towel from around his shoulders and cleaned his face off whatever foam might have remained. He was surprised to find almost none. She must have done it before, because she hadn't even pinched his skin.

Considering things, he was thankful that he was still alive. She could have slit his throat and make it look like an accident.

Unsuspecting of his thoughts, Olivier offered him the bottle of spirit and he applied it to his cheeks, looking at her all the time. He now fell in the opposite direction, becoming unable to tear his eyes from her. "Thank you," Miles said, but she kept silent. She busied herself with cleaning the razor.

He inhaled. He wasn't a child anymore, he couldn't simply avoid the one that he didn't want to talk to. He shifted slightly on the chair and Olivier finally focused on him. "Why did you come here, General?" he asked her, tired of her unpredictability. The bull's horns were his to take, but he wasn't sure he knew how to ride it.

"I wanted to talk to you, actually," Olivier replied and she saw him frown.

"Is there anything else you feel the need to say?"

"Well, I do have something to say, since you've so kindly slammed the door into my face the other day."

"Look, if-"

"Just listen to me," she interrupted him. Miles closed his mouth, signalling for her to continue. He didn't look like he would listen for too long, so Olivier got right to her point. "I don't want you to leave the fort. I won't ever find someone as capable for the job as you," she said with certain reluctance, but at least she got it out. Making it sound like it was all about business was a safe try.

It wasn't a good try, however. Miles sketched a tight grimace, but at least he was continuing to look her in the eye. "General, if you have come here to change my mind, you might as well leave," he told her. "I don't want to hear it. Thank you for the offer, but I will have to decline." He rose from the chair and turned his back at her. Not knowing how to end the conversation, he said, "I will complete my transfer papers tomorrow."

Her head shot up. "Transfer to where, exactly? You do realise that you are going for certain death if you leave."

He rolled his eyes. There it was, the humiliating part! He didn't miss it in the slightest, but there it was! "I do not believe it falls into your attributes to judge my decisions, General," he retorted.

"Don't do that," she snapped. "You are behaving irrationally."

He turned to look at her. This was the same conversation they had the other day, only with different words. For the sake of the argument, he asked, "My, am I behaving irrationally? How so?"

Olivier bit her lower lip. "Listen to me, Miles, and lose that sarcasm. I am sorry for what I've said and what I've done, alright? I shouldn't have. I will respect your wish and I shall not say a word about whatever I may think about you, but don't leave," she told him and started staring at the floor. "I am sorry that you have to put up with me, but – ah, for fuck's sake! I know you owe me nothing, but please, just don't go, okay?" she pleaded, feeling herself burst. "I... I need you here."

That simple confession leaving her chords felt like her insides were being churned by a shredding machine. Her head hurt so badly from the tension and she couldn't lift her eyes to meet his.

Her mind was being cruel to her, remembering the look of misery that he had when his Grandparents died. Broken, like there was no hope in the world.

The same look her parents had when she had told them she didn't want anything to do with them, all those years before. Disappointed, like they had expected something else from her.

If she were to look up, she would see a bit of both expressions. "Shit, I have no idea what I will do if you leave me," she stated simply, with nothing else left to say, and her entire being shook at the admittance. She kept on gazing away.

It was like being hit with a sauce pan over the face, and believe it or not, he knew how that felt. Miles, if he hadn't known how volatile the sentiments could be, would have thought that he was either dreaming, or that he was being made the fool in an elaborated prank.

Just like that, the veil over his vision lifted and he started to see, and it was a terrible vision like only a true one could ever be.

A person as strong as her shouldn't ever become like that, shouldn't leave all its walls crumble. He has thought her to be like a statue, forever frozen, but right in front of his eyes, she was unravelling, yet again. The gold over her features was cracking and she was losing her shine, her polish.

She was once again that person with glossy pale eyes, too tired for one her age.

But she was still the most mesmerising creature he had ever seen, even if her nose was turning red and her clear blue orbs were fighting back tears she refused to shed. Because that wasn't her. It was ridiculous how just a few heartfelt words could turn everything around, as if the events in the past weeks had never occurred. He watched her with the same eyes that he had used to see her before, because he knew that he glimpsed inside her again.

She was absolutely terrified of allowing herself to be true, and she was showing him just that. She was opening herself up.

Miles was not cruel, like her. He couldn't remain idle at her and how mortified she was of her own words. He hugged her suddenly and held her close to him, practically caging her into the spot, and began to slowly stroke her back. Olivier shivered at his touch and tentatively placed her head on his shoulder, feeling dizzy. Her arms dangled limply by her sides.

She inhaled deeply, smelling the faint tinge of fresh mint that always lingered to her assistant. She ached so horrendously, all sorts of things wanting to get out and be said. "Thank you for caring for me," she heard herself whisper, her voice cracking at the end of the words that she was desperate to form. The thorns inside her loosened and she buried her nose in his shoulder. "And I shouldn't have treated you like that, but I don't know how to behave differently, because... well, I was scared. I still am."

There. She said it. It burnt so badly to say the truth, but it was done. "I know it doesn't matter anymore, but I am sorry for not being what you thought I was."

Miles smiled as gently as his arms were around her, but she couldn't see him. "No, you are not."

He sensed her shoulders slump with apprehension.

"You are more," he murmured into her ear, letting go of his own fright. He was better versed in talking, generally, yet it didn't mean that it came easily.

Olivier's eyes became glossy. Her hands ghosted over his back and she shyly returned his embrace. Miles squeezed her tighter, pressing her cheek to his chest.

He felt her smile trough his shirt. Sluggishly, he brought up a palm against the nape of her head. "I am sorry for what I have said, too. I shouldn't have."

Her hands stilled and weighted as if they were made of lead. He had said many things, what was he sorry for?

She took a step back to look at him. She wondered if he wanted to ask her to leave, but his face betrayed no such thought. "Miles," she gurgled, hanging on that thin line of courage, "do..." She cleared her voice. "Do you still love me?" She felt stupid for what she was asking, but she held his gaze.

His face split into a brilliant grin. He was actually enjoying seeing her uncertain. How empowering that was.

Seeing his eyes sparkle while remaining quiet, Armstrong appeared to completely discard her edge. Fearing she might think that he was making fun of her, Miles broke the silence. "Of course I do, Sir."

"My name isn't 'Sir'," she said at once, as if the gateway cracked. "It's Olivier. At least, when we are alone, it is."

"Ah, pardon me, then! Of course I do, Olivier," he corrected himself and smirked smugly, like he had won a great war.

Olivier felt heat rush up her face and she suddenly wanted to disappear. Miles noticed that as well. "Um, are you alright?" he asked her, sounding concerned.

"I am so bad at this," she spoke in an uncharacteristically small voice, fear being overlapped by panic. That is why she hated feeling. It made her look stupid.

Miles' gentle smile turned sly. He might be having a few ruthless strikes himself, and that was one of them. After how much he had to roll in his misery, it wasn't a bad thing to see her struggle, even a bit.

Good that she didn't notice that.

"I only know how to give orders and shout at people," she continued, still needing to justify herself. He didn't want to interrupt her. "I just didn't know what to do with myself after we - you know." She made a vague gesture. "I really didn't mean to, um, say what I... said. Or treat you like someone convenient. It was insensitive of me. And I already said that. Damn it. Sorry."

His eyebrows shot up on his forehead. It wasn't bad to see her struggle, but it was starting to leave a sour taste in his mouth. "Whoa, wait! I will have to stop you right here, because I am beginning to get scared," Miles affirmed, though he looked very amused. "I am the nice person in here, don't steal my spotlight, okay?"

Olivier looked taken aback, but recovered soon. "Do I get that you are going to stay?"

"Do I have a choice?"

"Technically, yes, but you've got nowhere to go. So, no, you don't."

"Oh, well," Miles chirped, "I suppose you are going to have me around some more, then."

"I suppose I will," she echoed awkwardly. She shifted a bit, awfully uneasy under his intense stare. Miles let go of her arms and took a step back, giving her some space to breath.

Olivier's blue orbs shot up, but Miles raised his hands in front of him, like he was telling her to take it slow. "You know what, Olivier?" He pointed a finger at her. "I think we should start over, what do you say?" He straightened his ridiculous shirt and patted his yellow bathrobe, like he was making himself more presentable, then looked back at her. "Would you fancy some tea? I still don't have anything to offer besides that."

Olivier's gaze turned quizzical. "Tea is fine," she replied. "Mint, I suppose?"

"Evidently. I really should buy something else, but I always seem to forget," he said and picked up the kettle. He disappeared in the bathroom.

The sound of running water filled the room. "Please have a seat somewhere, I have to fill this up," he called from the lavatory.

Olivier looked around and sat back on the same chair as she had before. Miles returned with the pot and found her seating as straight as a rod. He wanted to tell her to relax, but he didn't think it would do any good. They were in for a long period of acting strangely in front of each other, but at least they could try again. He was more than willing to do whatever he could. He had a good feeling about the whole affair, call it a hunch.

The more sadistic part of him thought it was amazing how easy it was to forget his pride when she behaved nicely. And admitted she had been wrong. And looked so fragile. It wasn't very flattering to his resolve, but eh, he was only human.

So, he turned the burner on, because that was a sensible thing to do. "Can you please give me the tea tin from there?" he asked and pointed to a cabinet. "There is the sugar, too."

"Of course." Olivier gave him the tin and watched him blend the tea. She looked at the many objects on his desk - much better organised than hers - most of them used for carving and sculpting. She took a few moments to study them. She fumbled a bit with the hem of her robe, then decided that she was behaving like a snotty child.

And what was the most embarrassing thing? She was certain that he, the manipulative bastard, saw right through her act. All bloody hells high and below, she wasn't going to give him the satisfaction of having her trembling like a little girl just because she didn't know what to do with her hands.

She had a bit more maturity than that, so she started acting her age. "How is the chess set coming up?" she asked, voice levelled, breeching a conversational subject. The mature thing to do, she suspected. She wasn't aware what people did after they confessed... confessions, let them be called.

"Fair, I'd say," he replied as he turned off the burner and poured the tea in two mismatched mugs. He placed the kettle on the window sill. "I am almost done with it and I should start painting it. I should order some paint, actually, and then paint it," he said and stopped to write something in a small notebook.

"This sounds like I will finally have someone to play chess with soon enough," she commented matter-of-factly and sat at the edge of the bed. Miles perked up.

"Indeed, and I am going to beat you at it," he said smugly and offered her a mug. He took a seat next to her and leaned on the wall that framed the bed on one side.

"Ha! As if," she drew sarcastically and reclined as well. How silly of her to think that he might judge her for being indecisive. He wasn't that much of a bad chap, she had to remember that. She looked at him, who was feigning a look of shock at her exclamation. She snorted. "What?"

"Oh, please," he said and turned his head to look forward. "Don't make me laugh."

"Whatever makes you feel better," she said and took a sip from her drink. "Because it won't happen."

Miles shook his head, disappointed. "I highly doubt that, but fine. It's not nice to contradict your superiors, or so I've heard."

"Words of wisdom, yes," Olivier agreed and drank again. As she did, Miles noticed that her hair was tied with the bow he had borrowed her when they were writing reports.

His grin grew only wider, because in that very moment, he was certain that she had meant her call for truce. The dear Olivier Mira Armstrong was, believe it or not, a human with feelings.

What a strange revelation.

* * *

A/N: Ta-ta, that's it for now. I hope you have enjoyed this chapter, even if some might find the characters acting a bit strangely. From personal experience, when it comes to honesty, we all behave strangely, and I wanted to convey this. But please, let me know what you think of it, I am very happy to hear what you guys have to say! Feel free to leave some feedback, and thank you for it!

Thank you kindly for reading and I will see you soon, with another chapter!

Until then, bye bye!


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